


A Sure Thing (Dream Journals and Antivan Leather Boots)

by What_About_Bugs



Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dorian gets the love and appreciation he deserves, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Good Old-Fashioned Pining, Lavellan Actually Has the Right Accent For Once, Let's Not Sell Our Welsh/Irish Accented Dalish Short Here Lads, Lore friendly, M/M, Mages Should Be Able To Use Swords, Memory Loss, Multiclass Headcanons, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, dalish elven headcanons, just like grandma used to make, non-canon backstory, non-canon lavellan clan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 140,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_About_Bugs/pseuds/What_About_Bugs
Summary: Thedas is in need of a hero to save it from the greedy hands of a magister-god-monster. Lavellan probably isn't who they would've asked for, but if picking bottles of mystery booze out of half-collapsed houses and tumbling off cliffs is the worst he can do, Thedas should be counting its blessings.Get ready for a very lighthearted lovestory (that's actually a HEALTHY relationship god DAMN it) and a small journey of self-identity.Tl;dr: illiterate elf gets roasted by everyone working for him while also getting dunked on by God
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875757
Comments: 54
Kudos: 101





	1. Smells Like Fade Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mostly canon-compliant story with some lore-friendly changes to the Inquisitor's background; just an alternate backstory I thought might be interesting. I've also added little things to appease my own need for stupid camping-related shenanigans and things I wanted in the Dorian romance. Cute gifts and such ;)
> 
> A tarot card I made for this Lavellan: https://i.imgur.com/LViBW9w.png AND https://i.imgur.com/brD6Cu5.png

Dimly, he was aware that he was still asleep. He could feel the weight of his threadbare wool blanket; the cold which crept into his skin despite it. Still, he couldn't move. His eyes remained closed, casting him in a stifling silence he could do nothing to remedy. Whatever worlds he had previously dreamt were now forgotten. His mind was still moving at a slow, bleary pace even with his awareness. So, when he heard a voice, he couldn't quite make out whether or not it was entirely his own fabrication.

“Lavellan,” it said, scarcely an inch from his ear. It wasn't quite a whisper, but it wasn't a shout, either. It sounded... thoughtful. Matter-of-fact, even. Like someone testing the feeling of the word on their tongue; like the name of a friend or a lover. It was familiar, both the voice and the word, but he could place neither. The grip of sleep faded and he was released from his bleary trance, the voice still echoing in his mind. Lavellan.

When his eyes opened, the only thing he saw was the shabby, worn wood of his cabin ceiling. He sat up in his bed with a start, fumbling hands grasping towards his bedside table. In the rush, he nearly spilled the inkpot he had poised there. One of the stolen _Hard in Hightown_ drafts in hand, he scrawled the word onto its backside. With it freed from his mind, he allowed himself to relax, dropping the pen with a splatter of ink. The paper held tight to the word for him, allowing to be re-read. Lavellan. It was familiar enough. Its owner did not carry through to consciousness with it, however. He took the paper into his hands and traced the perimeter of the still-drying ink with one finger. Lavellan. Perhaps it was the name of someone important? That figure which appeared in nearly all his dreams? Or maybe it was his own name.

He returned to that empty, uncomfortable place where his name should be. He would need to find one; _Herald_ was a nickname he had started to outgrow. It was like a pair of boots two sizes too small, stuffing him into something that didn’t fit. Lavellan, he supposed, was not the worst he could do with. At least this name wouldn’t carry a set of notions with it which remained tightly tied to a religion he had less of a clue about than anything else.

He slipped fully from his bed, the chill already soaking into his feet through the floorboards. On went his boots, a blanket round his shoulders like a shabby cloak. The paper he kept close like a prize, tucked safely beneath his threadbare cocoon as he stepped out to bear the bucolic pilgrimage to the Ambassador’s office.

Haven was a creaking machine which never slept. Pack mules and labourers trod back and forth, mashing the ground into frozen mud, puffing and grunting in the icy air. The only thing which changed come nightfall (and then the eventual ascent of the sun) was the quickness of their amble and the concentration of their herds.

The Andrastians emerged with sunlight, as well. Like red and white daisies popping out of the unforgiving, white-covered landscape. They drifted those same worn paths, in murmuring gaggles or on their own, hands clasped in their signature firm-but-gentle manner. The village hadn’t warmed up, yet. Only the first few scholars and Sisters now trod the frozen landscape within the worn wood walls. Given another five minutes’ time, their numbers would surely triple.

It wasn’t a surprise to him, the Herald, that he’d risen just before the sun. A relief, actually, given the past weeks’ trials. Ride here, walk there, chat with these people. He’d barely gotten used to sleeping on the ground with the sky lain out above him. The nights were too cold and his mind too full and he’d barely caught himself a full nights’ rest for as long as he could recall. Not that that was saying much of anything, given it was only a month.

He’d awoken to a black-shrouded village the night previous, and a moonlit one the time before. At least the sun had pretended to start its ascent this time round, rather than making him twiddle his thumbs in darkness for a few hours before he felt it was acceptable to emerge. Maker forbid anyone thought their Herald was having trouble sleeping. Not that he believed _anyone_ was getting a good nights’ rest, what with the rumbling green abyss in the sky a mountain over.

He was surrounded by worry-warts and overworked overachievers, at least. It meant that, no matter what time he arose, be it one hours’ rest or eleven, _someone--_ notably Josephine--would be awake and still toiling away. He might’ve been concerned for her well-being if he hadn’t noticed ladylike snoring from the occasional storage room or dusty alcove when he passed.

Josephine’s office was heavy with the smell of candlefire. It was the heady, spiced smell of the red chantry candles which now soaked into everything and everyone in Haven like a signature scent. It was all they had for light, however, so they put up with the horrible stink over time. The Ambassador’s desk was littered with half-melted stubs of them, like a tiny mountain range of red wax and paperwork. She herself drooped at the edges, hand still twitching with an undying fervor. An addendum: Haven and Josephine’s quill were creaking machines which never slept.

Tentatively, he edged his way into the room, parchment pressed tight between fingers. He cleared his throat, announcing himself, and Josephine startled to attention, her inking pen raised a few inches above her parchment and her work-weary eyes cast wide.

“Morning.” He greeted, flashing a shy smile. She sank with a weak sigh.

“Already?” She asked, setting down her pen. One of her ink-stained hands came to rub at her eye. “I apologize. I must have lost track of time.” He strode a few more lingering steps towards her desk, his smile growing inch by inch.

“No need; am envious, myself.” She slumped, too tired to keep that polite posture, and let her eyelids drop for a few long breaths. With a long sigh, she came back to life and put on those same frantic-but-attentive eyes he was used to.

“What can I do for you, my Lord?” She asked, forcing energy into her tone.

“Haven’t a clue how you’ll do it, but,” he wrestled the parchment from inside his blanket wrap, extending it out towards her, “I’d like a change in name, if y’ please.”

-

“How many's that?” Lavellan asked, throwing a cursory glance over his shoulder to where Bull was steadily becoming more ram than qunari. Varric helped him count; two under each arm, one strapped over each shoulder. Lavellan had one over his shoulder, Varric kept his tied to his back. Blackwall hoisted up their most recent kill into his arms for a total of two.

“Eight,” Varric replied, shifting the limp body on his back, “and unless you can carry another two yourself, I suggest we drop these off.” Lavellan puffed and spluttered, trying to maneuver the hairy coat away from his face without the use of his arms.

“Right. Crossroads.” He ordered, taking point on their procession of rams. A loud, Earth-shaking sneeze made Lavellan's step falter. He glanced over his shoulder once more. Iron Bull was trying to shake it off, hands too full to rub at his nose.

“...Alright back there?” Lavellan asked tentatively, the smile in his tone.

“Fine.” Bull grunted in reply, face set to something stiff.

“You should be careful with that kinda firepower. You’ll bring the forest down.” Varric ribbed. Bull answered with another violent sneeze.

The walk to the Crossroads was, thankfully, not as long as it could have been. The sky above was already turning to dusky yellows and oranges, calling closed their long day of idle wandering and do-goodery. They dropped off the bodies with the hunter who had asked for them (though he hadn’t known he had done so), then Lavellan took his leave of the remaining trio to go looking for anyone else to aid. Iron Bull marked where the party had parked themselves, blowing his nose like a warhorn.

They were, perhaps, a bit too well-armed to be typical good samaritans. If that was even a thing that had a _typical_ to go with it; Ferelden had not often seen baseless kindness outside that between mutually-disadvantaged neighbors trading livestock. Still, Lavellan carried on as if it were the most natural thing in the world. One phylactery, three camps, four glowing shards and a flower-covered gravestone later, the party had arrived at Redcliffe for the evening.

An elder elf, once informed of the minor service done in his name, was grateful enough to the Herald to palm him a small bag of gold; likely no more than twenty pieces.

"Honest work deserves an honest reward," he claimed, no doubt endeared by the rag-tag group of three-quarters warrior, who doled out careless kindness as often as one might've expected violence. Lavellan, wide-eyed, tried just as hard to make him take it back, though it was to no avail. The elder elf gave him a final flippant glance and then stepped away bodily, refusing any returns.

"Right, well," Lavellan relented, a bit weakly, "suppose we're good for a round." Hopefully it could keep the alliance talk with the mages from being _too_ boring. The thought of it threatened to make him wilt; a single visit to Val Royeaux had set up his expectations when it came to making nice with others. Most especially someone trying to throw their political weight around. Whatever the outcome, the talk would be liable to drone on into early morning. Perhaps they could be afforded a room at the tavern. So long as they had a rag or sock to stuff into Blackwall's mouth to muffle the snoring, one room could work--

"Gee, thanks, boss." Bull piped up.

"I don't suppose we'll get to _choose_ these drinks, will we?" Varric ventured, bothering to sound hopeful. Lavellan turned to his party, his expression quickly warping to something pretending to be stern.

"You drink what I buy and you'll _enjoy it_ b'cause it's free." Lavellan instructed.

"Is that an order or a prophecy?" Varric replied.

"Depends how much you flap your mouth." Lavellan said, forging their path along the docks and then up the well-tread wood path to the tavern.

The revelation of an underhanded deal put a stopper on Lavellan’s plans on getting acceptably wasted for the time being. Fiona and the mages were out of their grasp now, seemingly by some strange twist of fate. All that followed--the Magister, his ill-struck son--only added to the pile of reasons why getting rid of the name _Herald_ was proving to be a good decision. The _Herald_ would follow up on this cryptic warning as soon as possible. He might have even raced straight off to the chantry, ever the keener. _Lavellan_ , however, was in no such rush; whatever ridiculous conspiracy was at work, it could wait one drink. He took up a place at the bar, the party following along behind. At least this would be more interesting than political deal-making.

At first, there was hardly a stool empty. The Iron Bull's massive stature worked wonders to scare off wide-eyed bumpkins. Lavellan's gleaming grin emptied a seat of his own. He ordered a round of the cheapest swill they served--barely a rung above pond water--and waited with a patient smile as his recently-earned coin was spent swiftly and without remorse.

"It's like the start of a mystery novel." Varric suggested, bumping Lavellan's arm with his elbow. He barely had to bend his knees to rest his feet on the lower rung of the bar stool. "Shady bad guys acting friendly. Cryptic threat on your life. All the good novel ideas just spring up around you, don't they?" Taking up his drink, Lavellan made a sound of consideration.

"A field of troublesome flowers."

"Literary thistle, yeah." Varric replied.

"What am I, then? In this cute metaphor?"

"I think it's a simile." Bull piped up from down the bar. Blackwall sat between himself and the Herald, his eyes on his tankard.

"I don't know. Take your pick. Grass, maybe?" Varric took a pull of the cheap ale, unable to restrain his look of horror.

"Grass's good. I like grass. Can make baskets n' shit out of grass." Lavellan murmured, rotating his glass between his hands. He took a long swig, wincing at the taste but giving little more. Iron Bull was the only other who could take down more than half his tankard.

Once the party had either finished or given up on their drinks, they emerged from the bustling tavern with varying degrees of tipsiness. The quick detour they took to recruit a smuggler moonlighting as a Sister was a well-needed one. Lavellan walked off the buzz of his one tankard, letting Varric do most of the talking.

"How you holding up, boss?" Bull asked, snapping Lavellan out of his reverie, watching as the red and white robes disappeared into town.

"Hmm?" Lavellan replied dumbly, glancing up at him.

"He means: can you fight off whatever might try and cut your head off when we go in there?" Varric supplied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the village chantry. Lavellan waved a dismissive hand.

"Yeah, fine." He replied. Despite their looks of tepid doubt, neither asked any further questions. It was a fair point, he supposed. He _was_ an elf, and while Bull had also finished his drink, he was easily three times the size of him. Perhaps he had been a drinker before the Conclave? It would explain how he could sip that swill without spitting it up. It was with a frown that he turned towards the chantry, trying to shake off the parade of theories come rolling through. Conspiring about his past was as frequent for him as it was useless. Now, they could be afforded no more distractions.

The village chantry was heavy with the smell of candle fire and old cedar, which quickly turned to the same undefined _Fade smell_ that came with the rifts. It was worse in close quarters. A mage, stood underneath the glowing green tear, had apparently resorted to batting away demons with his staff. Lavellan might've felt bad for taking so long if the man had any sort of scratch on him. He had scarcely a hair out of place, however, and managed an exhausted word of welcome as the party took over for him.

Lavellan put up a weak barrier before he marched into the fray, the glossy blue sheen crackling along his arms. He unleashed a bit of fade goo with another downed shade, flinching away from the spray. Still, some splattered across his boots. He tried to flick it off with a weak kick. That was one thing about fighting demons, at least: your blade didn’t get so covered in blood. Even though, if he had to choose, he probably would’ve gone with blood over _mystery-stench muck_ anyway. He could wear reds and blacks to cover regular ol' viscera; mystery stench _never_ washed out.

“Burning hair!” Varric exclaimed, loosing another bolt from his crossbow. The room stilled once the demons were all killed and, for a long, partly-silent moment, the suspended rift let out coils of light as it worked to funnel more into their world. Lavellan came to stand near one of the masses of light as it began to take shape. He held his blade at the ready, steadying his laboured breaths.

“I still think it’s piss and garbage.” Bull argued, following the Herald’s lead across the room. He had to corral himself between pews for enough room to swing.

“No, no, ‘burning barn’ is _still_ closer.” Blackwall piped up, rolling his shoulders. The clash of Lavellan’s metal blade against the hard wood floor preceded a thick wall of flame. It greeted an emerging demon by setting it ablaze and sending it, wailing, back a step. Undeterred by the heat of the fire, the Herald continued to fight through it. Sharpened talons cut through his cuirass and the thick leather of his pauldron, but it wasn't enough to pierce skin, thankfully. Lavellan staggered back, reeling from the hit and lowering his blade just as a well-placed bolt turned the shade at his flank to amorphous goop.

“Let’s agree to disagree, yeah?” Lavellan grunted, landing a heavy slash across the approaching terror’s chest. He rolled awkwardly out of the way as it called out, rearing up to pounce. Iron Bull landed the killing blow to its back and the rift burst open in the same instant. Lavellan leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword as he stood, brushing some of the fade-spawned muck off his armor. The fire at his feet dissolved into a deep scorch mark along the carpet with one last bright flicker. He still leaned on his blade with one hand, his other lashing out in yellows and greens towards the awaiting tear.

The rift screamed, pushing magic into him that bounced around inside and filled him up to the point where he felt he could burst. It seemed to tug him closer--a final plea--as coils of sickly green light arced between his enveloped hand and the great wound suspended in the air. Before it could set his fingers alight, it snapped closed, the inertia flinging his entire arm back. Bits of greenish-black ash fell as the rift sealed, dissolving into the air in an instant. The chantry stilled, magic no longer buzzing freely through the room.

“I’d say it’s the smell of sweat. Bad night at the tavern.” Lavellan breathed, shaking out his marked hand to dispel the searing heat the rift had bestowed. His head swam from the exertion and Iron Bull came to stand at his side out of habit. He planted one large hand on the elf's shoulder--bolstering him--while Lavellan struggled his way through sheathing his sword.

“Fascinating,” The mage hummed, emerging from his corner and casting a glance around the battle-scarred room. “How do you do that?” His hand now cool to the touch, Lavellan rubbed at his mark absentmindedly. He offered the mage a vague shrug, playing it off.

“Ah. So you just wiggle your fingers and _boom,_ rift closes.” He replied, speaking for them both.

“I like to think I put more pizzazz into it than 'at, but sure,” Lavellan replied easily. He moved a tentative step towards him, the party close at his back. He gave the stranger a courteous, if a bit tipsy-looking, bow. “Lavellan, Herald of Andraste. How-d'you-do.” His words jumbled together in his mouth, strung tight by his accent, and fell past lips curled into an easy smile. The mage offered a bow as well, never quite taking his eyes off him.

“Dorian of house Pavus. Pleasure.” He supplied.

“It’s always the pretty ones,” Bull warned, “watch out for him, boss.”


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red lyrium sings Wolf Totem by the HU

Lavellan’s dark eyes followed every jutting shard of red lyrium they passed, regarding it with nothing less than absolute suspicion. Some corridors, where they had to climb over and around crystals, a thousand mirror-images of himself were projected in the crimson glass. They watched him like the eyes of an insect. The odd, angular shapes of each edge cast his reflection in every way; some were giants with squashed torsos, some stout as the width of the plane, some with too-wide heads. It threw him off, to spot some sort of darkness or movement in his periphery, only to glance at it and see a warped image of himself.

The lyrium hummed inside his mind, like a constant vibrating, and he was finding himself lost in that sound. If time travel was as real as it seemed, would he remember all this once he went back? Why wouldn’t he? But then, would the singing follow him, too? He was starting to stare off into space and surrender to its song. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand; fighting for his life helped a great deal to forget about the magic evil rocks he was probably being poisoned by. Still, they found their way in.

“Hate the smell,” Lavellan grumbled, lips drawing into a scowl. Maybe, if he kept talking, he'd drown out the sound. “Rifts are one thing, but this? Regular lyrium, right, which's fine. Sprinkle in offal. Lightning and _flesh_ is no' my signature scent.”

“What, no good memories to associate with it? No one eviscerated during a lightning storm that you especially want to remember?” Dorian replied, one step behind him. At least, Lavellan supposed, he could do with worse company. A milquetoast bore, for one. No one at all, for another. It would be harder to tune out the lyrium without company.

“Does no' help there’s little demon bits all over. No one ever talks about that, you know? Veritable abominations--far as I've seen--fuckin' reek, the bastards. Then, you know, I stink t' hell n' back 'cause I’m the twat in charge of cutting them into little stinky pieces.” Lavellan gestured lazily with his free hand, watching his steps carefully as they descended into the cells.

“Sounds like a terrible life, being hero of everything. I can hardly imagine.” Dorian replied in a dry hum.

-

The entire ordeal replaying in his mind like a blur. Perhaps it was the lyrium growing from the walls, or else his chronically low mana. As soon as Dorian’s magic warped them back to their present, the clean air and the honest _warmth_ of the castle hall hit him like a ton of bricks. The past--or, future--they’d just experienced felt like a hazy dream. That was likely for the best. Lavellan knew, for better or for worse, that he would be seeing it again in his sleepless nights to come; eyes tinted red by the grip of lyrium. Hoarse, ruined voices coated by the same. The world seemed to tilt at odd angles, sometimes, like a leg giving out. He could still feel the hum of its song pressing in on him from all sides; the only heat in the strange, sunless world.

“It’s over. Surrender yourself to the Inquisition’s judgement.” He'd said, like he'd practiced it. A part of him wanted to be less kind. A part of him wanted to cut the Magister down right there, letting his head roll across the floor and naming that justice. But he held back. He wasn’t the _Herald_ , but he _was_ Lavellan, and _Lavellan_ wasn’t the sort to give into violent whims. No.

No, if he was going to shape the sort of person he was, he didn’t want to be _that_ sort of man. He had to be kind, even when his idle hands itched to be put to work and the singing in his mind tried to coax him into action. He knew little of this world--less so of himself--but he could see what made a decent sort. Kindness, honour, forgiveness; all that rot. He had to prove himself a better man than Alexius; _that_ was a more fitting punishment than death.

Or, perhaps he was simply trying to reason with why he felt so weak. It didn't help that they'd killed the man in another parallel world. Or that Dorian stood a half-step behind him, eyes pleading so loudly it was like needles on the back of his neck.

The journey back to Haven was long and enfeebled from the moment it began. Lavellan rode at the front of the procession, alongside Cassandra, but his thoughts still a mile away. The singing had all but stopped, its influence continuing to disappear the farther they rode from Redcliffe. Still, a part of him wondered, and he'd spent their journey in absolute silence; eyes staring into the middle-distance at the middle of his horse's mane.

“Are you alright?” Cassandra’s Nevarran lilt traversed the silence between them, snapping him out of it. He looked up with eyes wide but sunken and bobbing with every step of his horse, too drained to sit up straight.

“... No. Not really.” He replied earnestly, once he'd replayed the question to listen properly, lips drawn into a weak frown. From her silence, Cassandra seemed to be floundering. In the months he had been with the Inquisition, he'd rarely ever confided in her; that was more of Varric’s forté. But knowing that she was concerned--at the very least that he'd have a mental break--was help enough.

“Saw you in that dark future. Said you’d failed. I… I know that you and _her_ aren’t the same, but you ought'a know you didn’t fail me, regardless. You couldn’t have stopped it.” Lavellan said. Cassandra was still silent, so he chose to take it as pensive rather than worried. He glanced up from his reins to look over at her. Her face was set in her usual vacant-but-annoyed expression, but there was something softening in her brows. “Wanted'a tell you I see you doing your best and that’s all I need, no matter where it gets us. So… thank you.” He leaned over to give her a pat to her armored shoulder, still steering his mount carefully so as to not upset it. He drew back, offering her a small smile when she eventually looked up at him. She gave him a firm nod in return. There was something peculiar and confused in the way she watched him.

“Thank you, Herald.” She replied, terse as ever, though there was a bit more softness to it. Her lips parted, as if to say something more, but it never came.

They settled upon the Inquisition camp just as the sun dipped below the horizon, though the sky would retain its light for another few hours. Lavellan dismounted, leading his horse to where one of Leliana’s agents tended to the others. Cassandra was barking out tasks for everyone to do; a few agents would help Varric prepare food, another few would set up additional tents, et cetera. Her words turned to mush in Lavellan’s ears as he trailed through the camp like a ghost, heavy with exhaustion.

He slipped into one of the tents, pinching the bridge of his nose as a tired headache started to form behind his eyes. He paused as soon as he spotted someone else in the tent, though recognition assuaged some of the sudden tension. Dorian paused when he spotted him, as well. Evidently, Cassandra didn’t want the _Tevinter interloper_ to have a hand in making dinner (for risk of evil Tevinter poisoning) or setting up places to sleep (for fear of evil Tevinter incompetence). Lavellan let out a tired puff of a laugh despite himself.

“Positive you’re already sick of me after the day we had,” He spoke up, moving to take his scabbard off and drop it next to the other bedroll. “But I’m mostly sure time will pass as expected inside this tent.”

“I was rather a bit more concerned about being tent mates with the _Herald of Andraste,_ given your reputation." Dorian replied haughtily, unfreezing to slip off his boots now that the tone was established, "really, what would the people think? Me, the one Tevinter you've crossed paths with who hasn't met a grisly end.” Lavellan waved him off between peeled-away layers of armor.

“I’ll champion you as _gentlemanly and courteous,_ then. There'll be no wondering.” Lavellan replied, stripping down to his tunic and trousers. He took a seat on his bedroll, running long fingers through his white-blonde hair. He worked blindly to tie up the long strands in a bundle at the crown of his head. “Reckon you’ve earned that much from me.”

“Have I, now?” Dorian replied, following it up with a faint chortle. "Does that include _championing_ me towards the one with the stormy disposition? You know the one."

“Cassandra? Sure. Been told I'm a philanthropist, so I’d have to do it even if you hadn't earned it.” Lavellan said, shooting him a droopy-eyed smile.

“Is that so?” Dorian drawled, “I wouldn't have pegged someone of your _ilk_ as a philanthropist.” He leaned back on his hands, regarding the elf with a tilt of his head.

“My _ilk?"_ Lavellan repeated.

"Your sort."

"I know what it _means,_ you ass," Lavellan heckled, though it was perfectly light-hearted. Dorian took up a startled smile.

"Someone who kills a great number of random strangers." He corrected. Lavellan let out a breath of a laugh.

"Yeah, fair point. Just what I’ve been told,” Lavellan replied, putting his hands up in defense, “I make no claims to holiness or philanthropist-ness. Just like'a help people do the mundane things they can’t or won’t.”

“Including making me out to be a decent sort?” Dorian quipped, one side of his lips pulling up in a snarky look of doubt.

“Well, yeah.” Lavellan nodded, laying back on his bedroll with a sigh. A great number of cracks and pops followed the movement. “Could always save babies from trees, or… kill some pesky wildlife. People seem to warm up to you over time, no matter how foreign you are.”

“Or maybe I can just stand downwind of you and the good impression will waft towards me. No charity needed.” Dorian laid back as well, lacing his fingers over his abdomen. The general populace might not have liked the spooky Tevinter magister to be trading quips back and forth with their Herald, but he wasn’t about to stop. Lavellan had all but convinced him that he’d earned the right.

“You know what? Do that. Seems a better option.” Lavellan hummed, voice already far-away with sleep. The clamour outside the tent felt like another world. With what the both of them had experienced in the hours prior, perhaps it was. The distant noise was a welcome change from the foreboding hum of the red lyrium-infected world they’d left behind. Soon enough, the both of them were embraced by an uneasy sleep.


	3. The Knight's Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice foray into the Hinterlands and Dorian does a bit of Thonkin'. A longer chapter for y'all :)

“May I ask you something?” Dorian piped up, diligently holding open Lavellan’s leather satchel to receive the clippings of plants he waded the lakeside for.

“Never needed my permission before,” the Herald replied, taking another careful cutting of blood lotus to place into the bag. He was facing away, but Dorian could recognize that mirthful tone without needing to see his face. He’d gotten quite used to it, given a few weeks and the chance to earn silly answers to his silly questions. It seemed, more often than not, Lavellan was being inconveniently facetious. At least it meant he was in good company; truly, a refreshing change. “Go ahead.”

“Where did you learn to fight?” Dorian asked.

“My clan.” Lavellan replied, the flick of hair over his shoulder acting as the portent for him to look back at the mage. A small, curious smile crossed his lips, though his brows still furrowed. He gave the answer as if it was, truly, the only answer he could ever receive. It begat a roll of Dorian’s eyes.

 _“Obviously,”_ He sighed. “I _mean,_ where did you learn magic? Where did you learn to use a sword? Most people just pick one.”

“Most people're stupid,” Lavellan chortled, standing from the shin-deep water where he was crouched. He turned to face the mage fully, offering a vague shrug. “It’s just the way it turned out.”

“So… can everyone from your clan fight like that?” Dorian gestured vaguely with his free hand for a moment before bringing it straight back to support the satchel. Lavellan placed his other few clippings inside it, then cleaned his hands of wet dirt by wiping them on his thighs.

“Sure. Siblings... parents.” _I assume,_ Lavellan would have said, were they in another, more private, setting. He figured he had to have parents. Somewhere. The idea of lying an entirely new family to life put the seed of roiling guilt in his stomach, despite the ease of it. Dorian had been nothing short of tremblingly honest with him. Perhaps even brash. He shared the entire ugly history of his earlier life in such a casual way that Lavellan could hardly fathom.

He drew his lips into a large, almost childish frown that was far too comical for a religious icon to have and his dark eyes flooded with a sort of pensive worry that put Dorian on edge. He was too focused on them to pay much heed to the strange phrasing. The mage nodded haltingly, dragged from his thoughts as the Herald took the bag from his hands.

“Seems useful, so long as you can control it.” Dorian mused, keeping his voice light. “Did you have a Harrowing? Or… something like it?” They turned to walk back towards the camp.

“I did.” Lavellan replied, not elaborating. Dorian didn’t get the chance to ask another question before they broke through the foliage.

-

Nighttime was when Dorian happened to do his best and most astute overthinking, in his opinion. He’d lay there, staring up at the rough-hide tent ceiling with his hands resting over his stomach. He could hear Blackwall snoring clear as day even from two tents over. It faded to white noise as his thoughts ran on an endless march through his sleepless mind.

Lavellan always had a habit of giving vague answers about his background. It was fair, he supposed, to make privacy wherever he was able. A man like him--the gleaming, prophetic _Herald of Andraste--_ was likely not afforded much privacy. But when he chose to answer, he was always… strange. Lost.

Worry rolled through Dorian’s gut. Perhaps Lavellan missed home. The worry turned to guilt. Of _course_ Lavellan missed home; he’d practically been plucked from another _world_ entirely. And for what? To suddenly be held upon a pedestal by people he didn’t understand, expected to do things he wouldn’t choose to of his own volition? Pressing about his clan probably brought those memories of a happier life to the surface.

Dorian wrestled with his thin, scratchy blanket and laid on his side, letting loose a weak sigh. He could understand the feeling of missing home. But he couldn’t very well apologize; Lavellan said nothing about it, and suddenly coming out and giving him an apology would tip him off to his long nights of self-imposed torture. But he _had_ to do something to seem like less of an ass. Lavellan had been all snark-and-charity and had taken each of Dorian's clever half-insults in stride. Overall, he was the sort he wouldn't mind befriending. Or, at least, _not_ antagonizing. He had to do something to make things right; if only so he could get some sleep.

It would be quite the task. He’d need to find something meaningful--but not _too_ meaningful--to give him. Harder to accomplish when he knew next to nothing about the Inquisitor, even less so about Dalish. Harder still when there were few books he could read or people he could speak to on the matter. Perhaps he could speak to the Dalish on the Chargers…? No. He didn’t need anyone to hear him digging into Lavellan’s life and calling _Venatori spy_ before he could find some surefire way to keep himself comfortably in the Inquisition’s employ.

Could he give him a book? Lavellan didn’t seem like one to do much reading. From what Dorian had gleaned in their travels, the Herald’s grasp of Common was just passable. Good enough for reading hastily-scrawled notes he picked off long-dead corpses. Not the sort for a casual novel read. 

Perhaps a bauble? Everyone liked baubles. So long as they were pretty and small. Bauble-like. Val Royeaux would be the place for that sort of thing, but Dorian had hardly accumulated enough coin to buy his own drinks half the time. Though, he supposed, Lavellan would be worth saving his coin for. The poor sod could use a thank-you that was more than vague promises of power from nobles too haughty to even meet in person.

Dorian gave himself a silent nod of approval. Yes, this would be his own personal mission. Whether Lavellan knew (or wanted) or not, he was going to get the _best_ damned apology-gift-moonlighting-as-thanks in the (probably limited) history of such gifts.

Dorian’s salvation came two days later. It was when the party was sweeping through the East Road, following the vague hint that there were bandits in need of a hasty dismissal from this mortal coil. With three warriors to the group, it was far from a challenge. They swept through the camp with hardly a potion spared, leaving Dorian to put up barriers and pick off the half-dead ones. He had immolated a Dalish--or so he figured, by their tattoos--when he spotted a token clutched tightly in their pallid hand. He spared a glance across the recent battleground, to where Lavellan was still picking through the other bodies for anything of use. Dorian slipped a few steps from the back of the party and snatched a little wood carving from their cold fingers. Perhaps not the most glamorous place to find a gift, but it was something.

“Anything interesting?” Iron Bull’s timbre nearly worked a shout from the mage. He visibly flinched, quickly hopping to his feet and wheeling around to face the qunari with furrowed brows and a stiff frown. He hadn't been there just a few moments ago.

He and the qunari had been rather peacefully ignoring eachother at every turn, but there were times that he would do things apparently just to bother him. A shame he couldn't get away with lighting the brute's trousers on fire, or something of the like; he and Lavellan had a pleasant acquaintanceship, but it probably wouldn't hold up if he was going to roil tensions.

“No.” He spat, terse. He didn’t need the qunari to catch onto his plan. He would tell someone about it; ruin it for him out of principle. Or worse, he’d try to _help._ Thankfully, catching wind of the barb, the Bull raised his thick hands in defense.

“Alright. Just don’t fall behind.” He warned easily, wandering away with a poorly-suppressed smile. Dorian’s face scrunched in distaste and he watched the qunari's back until he was at a satisfactory distance. He palmed the wood carving from his pocket, where he’d hidden it on instinct. His gift had been acquired at last.

Another day had passed; the warm, fuzzy feeling of _community service_ was now gradually fading from Dorian’s mind. Blackwall and Bull were playing a game of Wicked Grace with borrowed cards. Dorian sat across from them at the fire, coaxing it to life whenever it flickered down to only its embers. He’d been invited to join the game, but he hadn’t anything worth gambling. He had some world-class plotting to do, anyway.

He ran his thumb over the jagged angles of the wooden wolf’s carved snout. It lay with its maplewood paws crossed as it rested; a wary guardsman frozen in time. Lavellan always seemed to have a knack for telling and re-telling the stories he’d learned from travelling; little things he discovered from ancient gravesites or collapsing watchtowers. He would tell tales of Emerald Knights as they passed through dense, looming forest; his eyes alight and a smile ever-present. Dorian supposed it was a fitting gift for the elven warrior and a lucky find to begin with.

“Who d'you think'll win?” As if he'd called out to him by thought alone, Dorian smothered the carving in his hands and looked up to where Lavellan stood at his side. His arms were folded over his chest, an easy smile on his lips, watching the card game from afar. He fell into a sit beside the mage and jabbed at the smoldering embers before them. Every shift of the firewood released sparks that spiraled up to join the stars.

“Varric always wins, so the easy bets are off,” Dorian replied, keeping his voice casual even as excited nerves welled up in his chest. Maker, he felt like a schoolboy. It was just a gift. He should just hand it over and be done with it. “And I'll not say anything disparaging regarding our less _academically-minded_ _._ ” Lavellan let out his usual easy giggle.

"No, no, 'course not. Because if you _did_ _,_ I'd have to count myself a victim of your bad-mouthing."

"I don't _bad-mouth_ _,_ " Dorian objected, "I simply state what others won't. Really, it's an admirable trait. People are afraid to step on toes."

"Oh, aye, cowards; the lot of 'em." Lavellan drawled, positively _dripping_ with derision. A shame that the Chantry would likely smooth over that bit. Or that _terrible_ accent; considering it a wrinkle in the very bumpy, very _real_ tapestry that was Lavellan. Five-hundred years from now, he wouldn't be surprised if the Herald's name was changed to something less _offensive_ upon intolerant ears; his own two smoothed to erase any trace of that which could be considered non-human. How silly it was that the Chantry struggled to create heroes, and so they stole and changed others to suit their whim. A shame, indeed.

“I’d bet Bull,” Lavellan said, bringing Dorian back from his sudden bout of fond appreciation, “He’s right clever. An' I canno' leave _you_ put your coin on 'em; how embarrassing. An Altus, betting his sovereigns on a qunari? Talk of the century.”

“Fine by me," Dorian replied, glowing with a smile at the revelation that Lavellan's humming and hawing during his lecture of Tevinter titles hadn't just been a pleasantry. "Everyone knows that well-meaning fools hoard all the good fortune in Thedas.”

"I'd be careful, I were you. Any well-meaning fools hears you say that an' stepping on toes will be the least of your worries."

"Oh, pish, it was a compliment. A well-meaning fool should pick his battles more wisely." A soft chuckle turned to easy silence which, for Dorian, was filled with near-panicked deliberation.

“I…” he spoke up, already cursing his hesitation. That would _not_ make things go more smoothly. He should have practiced. Or _thought._ Now, he could feel Lavellan’s eyes on him. Fuck.

“I can leave and come back again, if you like.” Lavellan offered, barely derisive. He made a show of rolling his eyes. It was better than outright concern; teasing gave him room to breathe.

“Maybe that’s best. And if you could lament about how you never get any nice gifts, that would help. Perhaps you could also act very surprised and pleased when I show you.” Dorian replied, uncovering the wolf carving in his palms and holding it out.

Lavellan looked between the carving, then Dorian’s face, then back to the carving. At first, he was unreadable. Then, his expression morphed to confusion. Then, lighthearted suspicion. Dorian gestured for him to take it, and that was when the smile came. At least he'd managed one of three suggestions. Lavellan plucked up the carving as gently as if it were alive and turned it over in his fingers, studying every little groove. His smile only grew. Dorian was starting to understand why Lavellan lived off of community service; the rush was really going to his head.

“Where--no. Why?” Lavellan asked, looking back up at him. His eyes danced back and forth around Dorian’s face, searching for an answer before he could give it. He forced an easy smile and a vague shrug.

“Thought you deserved a proper thanks,” he supplied, “for championing me as gentlemanly, or whatever it was you said. It was a while ago, don’t fault me for not remembering.” He put up a hand to silence whatever genuine, heart-wrenching kindness Lavellan was cooking up. “Don’t say anything. I detest these things.”

“Fuck that,” Lavellan guffawed, flashing his teeth in a heart-shaped grin, “thank you, Dorian. You did no' need give me anything, but I do appreciate it. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Considering where I found it, I don’t think that’s especially necessary,” Dorian replied, unable to help himself. He had to ruin the moment somehow. Its cloying sweetness would suffocate him, otherwise.

“Well, the thought that counts, right?” Lavellan drawled, holding the carving tight between his hands. “And _I_ think I’ll keep it with me. Forever.” He guaranteed flippantly, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Dorian couldn’t help a light laugh. At least it didn’t sound as nervous as he suddenly felt.

“You’re setting me up to have lofty expectations. Don’t tell me you do this with every bit of junk people hand you.” He joked, working to assuage his nerves as quickly as possible. “If I have to carry a mound of rubbish into our final battle, I might die just to spite you.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Lavellan said, shifting into a crouch. “But, so you know, I only do that with gifts from close friends.” He gave Dorian a casual pat on the shoulder and rose to a stand. He shot the mage a quick smile before disappearing into his tent.

Dorian was left blinking and halfway between shocked and starry-eyed. Was this how people normally felt around Lavellan? Surprised by his brazen attitude, but pleased by the contents of his speech? He almost needed to fan himself like some scandalized Orlesian duchess. He was a _close f_ _riend,_ then, was he? This was, he supposed, the best possible way things could have gone.

He tried to tell himself that the title meant little; Lavellan knew only what he’d told him about his background. He had been a part of the Inquisition a scant month and a half. It was a naive, if endearing, thing to say. Nothing more. Dully, at the back of his mind, he reassured himself that it wouldn’t last. That he would say or do something callous and Lavellan would decide he wasn’t worth the effort. He’d see more of him--of his past--and give up.

The usual paranoia and dread was almost comfortable compared to the giddy excitement he’d felt minutes and hours before. Things were back to normal, now; counter-intuitive though his mission was. It would only give him more things to think about at night when sleep refused to come for him.


	4. Red Fire, Red Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bye-Bye Haven, Hello Physical Trauma

The clamour of their revelry faded the farther Cassandra walked from the chantry. The door was still propped open, and if she looked over her shoulder, she might’ve been able to spot Sera picking off her plate. The thin layer of snow crunched underfoot as she came to stand at Lavellan’s side. She followed his gaze to where laborers and soldiers partied below, flushed and warm despite the chill in the southern mountain air.

To Lavellan, it felt more far away than the ringing in his ears. The Breach had been sealed with little incident--even less than the first (or, technically, _second)_ time he had been to the temple--but the sound of it snapping shut still replayed in his mind. How strange it felt, to have spent the past months garnering influence and allies for this one great feat, only to have it end so abruptly. It made those hundred sleepless nights and his days spent labouring seem all the more inconsequential. It didn't even have the comforting feeling of being released from this spell of duty; there was still a matter of the culprit, as well as the mark seated stubbornly on his palm.

“I just wanted to offer my congratulations,” Cassandra greeted, breaking his solitary silence. He didn’t look up. “You’ve made history, regardless of what comes next.” She caught a nod in her periphery. It was all he could do to not voice his thoughts and ruin her pride. But she had been a true ally and she deserved more than silence.

“Feels too easy,” Lavellan replied, his voice low, “like… I don’t know. Like something’s coming. Something big.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra agreed, “We still have not faced whatever caused the explosion at the Conclave.” She grew quiet for a moment. “...What do you think you will do, when the time comes to face this Elder One?”

“Fight him. What else can I do?” Lavellan said. At least he had the great fortune of speaking to a realist. “If I die, I die. Fitting enough end for the Herald.”

There would never be room for what _Lavellan_ wanted in this new world of his; he knew that well enough. It was easier to pretend that he didn’t have wants. To pretend that this was _fair,_ even when his heart screamed to run and leave someone else to save the world. But he couldn’t, could he? Redcliffe had proven that.

“...And if you don’t?” Cassandra asked, interrupting his train of thought.

“I carry on.” He let out a long sigh, urging his worry to leave with it. Still it sat stubbornly in his gut. _“Someone_ has to sample all those mystery cheeses out there in the wilds.”

The Seeker made a sound that was close enough to a laugh. It felt irresponsible to joke when unease dogged him like this. Still, it was all he could do. _It would be fine,_ he told himself. _You have no-one to live for either way. Better you than anyone else._

“I pray that we make it through. All of us. I would like to see the world the Inquisition can shape.” She gave a grave nod, mostly to herself.

“Suppose that means you’re in this for the long haul, then.” Lavellan murmured. She glanced up towards him, though he was busy looking down at his hands.

"I suppose it does." She replied. His expression perked up into a lopsided smile.

“Good.”

A distant rumbling drew their shared attention to the horizon. Vague shapes moved down the mountains in a stream. A hundred far-away torchlights burned. His brows furrowed. “What is…?” He started, only to be cut off by the warning horns at the gate. He and Cassandra snapped to attention in the same instant.

“Gate, now. I'll get the others.” He ordered, already running back towards the chantry. The sound of a blade unsheathed was the only confirmation he needed.

“What is it? An attack?” Blackwall asked, approaching Lavellan with broad strides. He'd been getting some fresh air outside the party just in time to realize the advance.

"I don't know." Lavellan replied, putting a great deal of effort into not sounding panicked.

He was thankful, in that moment, he'd stayed in his armor after the Breach had been dealt with. He didn't anticipate this oncoming army would wait patiently outside his cabin for him to put on his jacket. He looked to the horizon, gauging the oncoming storm. A few hundred specks were visible, but he feared there would be more to come. The rest of his companions emerged from the chantry swiftly after, each of them appraising the battle to come with mixed looks of confusion and worry. Lavellan searched the meager crowd.

“Dorian, Varric, with me.” He ordered, calling their attention in a voice more like _the Herald_ than _Lavellan._ “The rest of you, fight or help the refugees fall back to the chantry.”

He took up a jog once the order was given, leaving no time for a reply. He searched out the familiar form of Cassandra near the gate, spotting her where she was already standing at attention with his advisors. Absently, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, thumbing over the smooth wood carving in an attempt to calm his nerves.

-

Another loud cry of the dragon shook dust loose from the rafters above their heads. The party had saved everyone they came across; a fact Varric kept repeating like a mantra to keep himself from crumpling in the face of the totally _fucked_ situation they found themselves in. If Lavellan was falling apart, he wasn’t showing it. That was, unfortunately, for the best. The Herald was the only one standing hard against the oncoming army; everyone else took their cue from his look of steely--if grim--determination.

The talk with Cullen was short and felt like a far-away fantasy, the same as the entire advance on Haven. Lavellan squeezed the wood carving tight in his pocket, cutting little red marks into the skin of his palm in the shapes of its ears.

He was going to die.

He was going to _die_ and he didn’t even have a good enough grasp of his life to have it flash before his eyes.

A hand on his shoulder steadied him.

“Herald.” Cassandra addressed, voice calm but stern. He let out a stiff breath.

“The long haul, right?” He murmured, keeping his voice from wavering as best he could. If he was going to die, he could at least go out with some panache. He could at least die with friends at his side.

“Right.” She replied. He glanced up, finding Dorian and Varric alongside her. He worried the inside of his cheek and smiled despite it all.

“No time to waste, yeah?” He said, jerking his head towards the tall chantry doors. They stepped through, back into the cold red heat of the blazing settlement.

Their sweep through the village felt slower than it was. Lavellan and Cassandra took point and fell into a rhythm; shield bash, heavy strike, block, heavy strike. They corralled their enemies wherever they needed them, controlling their battles and minimizing the number of potions used up. If the party was to deal with a dragon, they'd be well-needed soon enough.

He threw down his blade in another heavy strike, cleaving through a Templar's shoulder with a sick sound. They could barely let out a cry before he was pushing them off with his foot and landing a killing thrust between their ribs.

Dorian paid enough attention to put up barriers for him, and for that he was thankful. He'd never really considered how helpful it would be to have someone keep an eye on him like that. He could put up his own barriers on instinct, but it did little to try to block an attack that was already halfway to his sternum. By the time they made the trebuchet, the mage must've saved his life ten times over. As soon as it was within sight, Lavellan ordered Varric to start cranking.

The Herald stood tall at the dwarf's back, ready to take down any Templars drawing in too close. He waited, anxious, watching as Dorian and Cassandra picked off those that were incoming. He watched Cassandra go through the rhythm; shield bash, heavy strike. Shield bash, heavy strike. Then, her shield bash didn't land, and she was being knocked off-balance.

A line of red lyrium shards came cutting up through the ground and she nearly fell prostrate onto one of them before she caught herself. It was a minor victory. The red lyrium had come as an omen; a hulking behemoth, half-rotten and more crystalline than human, now lumbered onto the battlefield. Lavellan spared a glance over his shoulder. The trebuchet was aimed. Another few cranks and Varric would have it primed to fire.

Lavellan broke away from his side, ordering Dorian to take his place. The reply was a crackling film of blue; smoothing over the surface of his armor, protecting him from the rain of little red lyrium shards upon him from the too-close strike of the behemoth's limb. Every step and every strike seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Or maybe that was the dragon. At this point, he was losing focus. The familiar singing was back inside his mind, expanding and pushing his other thoughts from his ears.

Its rhythm corrupted his, tripping up his steps and sending him too off-balance to land his heavy strike. Still, he followed through with the clumsy movement, still able to crack the hilt of his blade against the would-be Templar's arm still lodged in the ground. Cassandra must've launched a hit from its back, because it was starting to fall forward. Lavellan had barely scrambled out of the way before he became a pretty-looking smear in the snow.

"Boots!" Varric called, "trebuchet!" Lavellan sheathed his sword and stumbled back towards him. As Cassandra closed in, the shadow of the dragon falling upon them had her already turning to run the other direction.

Thank fuck that even for all their snark, Varric and Dorian could at least follow orders. Especially when that order was _run and don’t look back._ Cassandra had no qualms with grabbing them and dragging them away. The last thing Lavellan needed in the midst of his oncoming martyrdom was an _audience._

An explosion knocked Lavellan to the ground and for the second time that day, ringing was all he could hear. Then, the ringing became more like silence as the red lyrium's singing took over. It overpowered the static noise, reaching its crescendo now that there were nothing else in Lavellan's mind to compete with. He reached a bloodied hand to his ear, trying to shut out the sound. But the song was within him, now--it clung to his mana and reverberated inside his skull like a fly inside his ear. He couldn't hear his own voice when he choked out a weak sound of protest.

Suddenly, he was being turned and lifted, the giant _thing_ of a man that he faced looking at once too real and too impossible for his lyrium-warped mind to understand. It was a part of him--the _red lyrium_ was a part of him--it grew from the giant's head, not quite jutting from his skin like a broken bone, but not quite atop it either. It _became_ his skin, and his flesh warped around it, pulled taut, when he spoke. At first, his booming timbre was just noise.

 _At least,_ his scrambled mind supposed, _this great evil loves to hear himself talk._ The joke gave him a chance to breathe, even if it was choked and halting with how his shoulder had popped and started to sear. It protested in agony at being the thread upon which his body and all hundred-something pounds of armor and sword hung. His humour was something to cling to. It was real; uncorrupted by the steadily-fading song or the unreal being that now threatened him. He grit his teeth, breathing hard between curses and sounds of pain.

Then, the pain lessened for a moment, because he was being thrown. It was a blissful moment where his shoulder only throbbed instead of feeling like his entire arm would be yanked from the socket. When he hit the trebuchet, the moment ended, and his head started to swim. It took a few tries to get to his feet. Now, he could make out the monster's words. His dragon loomed near, its hot breath brushing over him like an acrid wind that made it all the more difficult to breathe.

The crank of the trebuchet caught his eye. A way out. Maybe a chance for a witty retort.

The bloodied sword of a long-forgotten soldier lay upon the worn wood near his feet. He dragged it closer with one foot and snatched it up with by his good arm. It was easier to hide behind a weapon than his own blustering, even if it would do little against an ancient being and his pet dragon. Withered Tevinter this, throne of the gods that. At least he got a name: _Corypheus_. That was something to hold onto. The rest of it slipped into the dizzy darkness of his pain-shocked mind.

Distantly, he heard the sound of a flair zip through the sky. Safe. The people were safe. He had done his part.

“Chatty one, aren’t you?” He slurred towards the ten-foot monstrosity. He kicked hard at the trebuchet’s crank and it loosed a boulder towards the mountainside. He dropped the sword with a clatter for favour of holding his injured arm, already racing as quick as his legs could carry him. Where he was going, he had no idea. _Somewhere else_ was the goal. The thundering sound of an avalanche told him that Varric's aiming had been good enough. Likely better than what his own would have been. _Maker bless that little man,_ he thought, feet pounding hard against the ruined, snowy ground.

A large piece of rubble fell a number of paces before him, loosening the ground itself and exposing an underground passage. Taking a chance, he dove for it, the shockingly cold air of oncoming snow pushing him forward. In the growing darkness of his swift fall, something cracked against his ribs. His breath was stolen from him and he fell unconscious before he could even hit the ground.


	5. Alive, Despite Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yowza, am I right?

When he awoke, his breaths came in small, stunted gasps which froze once they met air. Sitting up was a challenge he rose to with some time, still struggling to gather what little he could remember. It came back in chunks. Ten-foot, lyrium-bedazzled piece of shit, for one. Ribs that ground together when he moved, for another. He avoided moving his midsection as much as he could, which was not easy to say in his condition nor easy to do. The stannic taste of blood lingered on his thick, dry tongue. He didn't know where it came from, but he made a weak plea to the heavens that it wasn't going to be the end of him.

He struggled to his feet with the guidance of the icy cave wall. The weight of his sword on his hip was gone, as was the shape of the wolf carving in his pocket. Panic shot through his mind, only making the pain worse. He leaned hard against the cave wall and used the light of--what had he called it? The anchor?--to search the area around him.

He let out a breath of relief once he spotted the carving in amongst the scraps of wood and rock that littered the icy cave floor. His sword wasn’t far, either. Two lowly wins for him! Yay! He took his time shuffling forth and grabbing his things, careful to not slip on the ice. It worked better in theory. He kept his sword out, using it as a support to walk on as his injured arm lit the way ahead. The mark throbbed, feverishly hot in comparison to the rest of him. At least it didn’t ache the way it had when the breach was still open. Now, it glowed dully, just as a small reminder that it was still, stubbornly, _there._

It seemed to come to life when he stumbled into a room lit by another rift. It discharged, forming a great ball of light which seemed to suck all the demons into it like a hungry whirlpool. He sealed the rift with some effort, not able to raise his marked hand with the throbbing in his shoulder and now also his wrist. He took time to rest once he was alone once more, each step taking more effort than the last. He came upon the end of the cave system, where wind cut snow in little shards through the air. He crumbled into a sit, hissing as his ribs protested the movement.

He shed his warped armor and layers of leather and cloth to expose his many cuts and bruises. As an afterthought, already half-naked in the hard chill and unable to get up with a great deal of effort, he searched around for bits of wood. Passing out from mana exhaustion and dying from the cold would be, comparatively, an embarrassing way to go.

There was a half-collapsed chunk of scaffolding a short distance from him. He extended a hand and beckoned the old, dry wood closer with a spell dancing through his fingers. He coaxed it nearer with both words and magic until it was within reach. It was a meager amount of wood, but it would have to do.

Exhaustion weighed on his eyelids, making it hard to focus on his task of drawing a fire rune into the dusting of snow beside him. It seared itself into the cave floor with a soft glow and he set the old wood atop it. He culed weakly towards it, coddling it both as light and heat. He endeavored to cast a healing spell and do a half-assed attempt at soothing the pain of his ribs. They shifted under his skin, righting themselves and cracking into place. He grit his teeth hard, raising a headache in his temples, and stopped the spell. They weren’t healed, to be sure, but at least they wouldn’t threaten to puncture a lung with every step. He pulled his armor and clothing over himself in a thick heap, shifting haphazardly onto his side. Then, after a moment spent gazing into the meager firelight, he let his eyes close. The world was a dull greenish-black for the remainder of his consciousness. He gave into sleep without meaning to, regardless of what his better judgement told him.

His rest was short and cold, but he awoke to something like sunrise and a fire still burning hot beside him. Sitting up wasn't entirely impossible, at least. His entire body ached with any movement, but he was alive. Somehow. He shifted out of his pile of cloth and metal and started to slip on his layers between hard shivers. The wind was still blowing waves of snow over the barren world outside, but he felt more optimistic than he had a few hours earlier. He had... maybe a thirty-percent chance of making it through, compared to his previous ten. Clumsy, half-numbed fingers worked to do up the straps of his cuirass, too weak to pull the leather taut to his chest. Not that it would be especially useful, either way.

He said his goodbyes to the loyal fire and started his trek into the knee-deep snow. He grunted and groaned as much as he needed to get through the pain, but it was lesser, now that the cold numbed him. The feeling, he told himself, was something to cling to; It meant he was alive, even with how the wailing wind wanted to remind him he ought not be. It was a hollow reminder, all the same. His weary, one-track mind could hardly conjure the memory of living without a frostbitten face.

He kept a fire spell ready in his marked hand, using it for whatever warmth he could to keep his digits and his ears firmly on his body. He mapped the trail of the sun’s ascent, trekking towards distant peaks on the horizon. He wiped most every other thought from his mind and focused on his singular goal. He had to live. He had to.

The sign of recent embers was a welcome one. It came nearly a day and a half later, when he was barely hanging on by fire spells and willpower. Each step grew more encumbered by the weight of his body itself. He'd shed only his most unneded armor; the rest clung haphazard, trying to retain what little warmth it could. A more welcome sight was the distant glow of a shabby campsite, alight with fires and torches just in the valley below him. He could've cried, if he had the energy. If the tears wouldn’t freeze on his cheeks.

Relief washed over him and he crumpled to his knees. Thankfully, there was a distant calling. Then, at some point or another--he couldn't quite tell time, now--there were crunching footsteps approaching. He barely paid them heed as he was hoisted to his feet on both sides. He'd made it. He could eat and drink and use his left arm again. He _survived._

-

Cullen had Lavellan’s good arm slung over his shoulder as he helped to half-walk, half-carry the elf back into camp. Cassandra walked in front of them, cutting a path to a tent near the fire. The soldiers accompanying them were quick to run deeper into the camp, fetching whatever supplies their Herald would need and spreading word of his miraculous survival as they went. Plenty of his companions and starry-eyed pilgrims came out of the woodwork to greet or ogle him as he passed through. His eyes were downcast as he carried on, sunken and dark against his pallid, icy skin. Somehow, his gaze was brighter than ever.

He collapsed into a sit on the edge of his cot with a groan, allowing someone to tug off his ruined leather boots and undo the poorly-fastened straps of his armor. He could hear Cassandra shooing away onlookers from outside the flap of his tent. Still, it moved, and Varric came shuffling in. As soon as their eyes met, the dwarf was grinning from ear to ear.

“Hey, Boots,” he greeted, standing idly at the foot of his bed as the surgeon and her aides plucked Lavellan out of his icy armor piece by stubborn piece. “You’re alive.”

“Hey, Varric.” Lavellan replied casually, exhaustion heavy in his voice. His eyes drooped, but they smiled along with his bluish, chapped lips. “I _am_ alive. Make any bets against me?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I did.” The dwarf let out a warm laugh and gave him a gentle pat on the knee. He grew silent after a moment, face falling to something more grim. Lavellan nodded once. He understood. To them, he had all but died when they’d left him behind to face Corypheus. To them, he was a dead man walking. Or a prophetic hero resurrected by the grace of Andraste. Something impossible, either way.

“... I’m glad you’re back.” Varric said simply, offering him a smaller smile. Yes, that was certainly a succinct way of putting it.

“As am I,” Lavellan replied, his slurred accent jumbling the words in his tired mouth. “Could use a proper meal. You think you could find me something good?” He tilted his head lazily, lips pulled into a more conspiratorial smile.

“Consider it done, your impeccable holiness,” Varric gave a sweeping bow and moved to slip out of the tent. He brushed past Dorian as he did, who was on his way in, looking worse for wear. His and Lavellan's eyes met for only a moment.

“Can you move your left arm?” The surgeon’s brusque tone distracted Lavellan from the surprised, then relieved, expression that crossed the mage’s face.

“No,” Lavellan replied lowly, shaking his head, “dislocated, I think. Ribs are bad, too.” She nodded, stiff, and helped him to shrug his shirt off. They moved carefully around his injured shoulder. Dorian was still stood by the entrance of the tent and looking rather like a trapped animal until Lavellan waved him closer.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the wolf carving. Dorian unfroze to do as he was told, letting loose a laugh of disbelief once Lavellan showed off the gift.

“I told you I’d keep it with me.” He said, matter-of-fact.

“So you did.” Dorian replied, a small smile crossing his lips that quickly faded. Stiff silence fell once more, the both of them full of things to say but unsure of how or when to give them a voice.

“...Tell you what,” Lavellan started, glancing to where the surgeon was giving his injured wrist a splint. “The next time I face off against a giant Tevinter monstrosity, I’ll let you tag along. Need someone to supply comedic relief, right?”

“Done. I’m well-versed in dealing with _Tevinter monstrosities_ ,” Dorian replied, holding back from an offhand joke about his father that stung too much even without saying it. “I’m sure I can work up a few topical barbs.” The smile that followed was bittersweet despite his best efforts. He might've said something about proving his worth, if the two of them were alone.

“You might wanna clear out of here,” The surgeon warned, addressing Dorian this time, “We need to fix his shoulder. It’ll be loud.” One of her helpers handed Lavellan a thick leather cord to bite into.

“I’ve seen plenty worse.” Dorian replied firmly. Lavellan clamped his teeth onto the leather with wide eyes as the surgeon took his injured arm in a gentle, if calculated, grip. Suddenly panicked, Lavellan put out his other arm towards Dorian, making an insistent grabby hand. The realization of what was happening hit him visibly. At first tentative, Dorian quickly made up his mind and slipped his hand into Lavellan’s, letting him squeeze it hard enough to bruise.

To his credit, Lavellan screamed less than most. Barely. There were defined cuts in the leather from where he bit down, as well as hot tears pricking at his eyes once the pain had passed. His shoulder still throbbed, not quite _all better_ , but still definitely an improvement. He released Dorian’s hand to scrub at his eyes and take the leather from his mouth, letting out a shaky sigh.

“...Thanks.” Lavellan murmured meekly, head swimming.

“Of course.” Dorian replied, somewhat drowned out as Varric stepped back into the tent with a bowl of hot stew in one hand and a collection of bread and dried fruit in his other.

“I come bearing gifts!” He announced, offering up the boon to the woozy-looking Herald on the bed.

“Absolute angels, the both of you,” Lavellan sighed, taking the bowl in his good hand to balance it, somewhat precariously, on his lap. He tore into the bread greedily, letting out a sound between a groan and ravenous growl. He gripped at his stomach in a melodramatic gesture.

“Well, I _did_ have to make a few sacrifices,” Varric lamented, letting out a long-suffering sigh, “but I _guess_ you deserve a little something for all your effort.”

“I haven’t eaten in _days_ ,” Lavellan hummed past a mouthful of bread and stew, “I would’ve taken sawdust. You spoil me.” He cut himself off with another long gulp of stew as the surgeon applied a thick salve to his injured shoulder. A helper took the food from his grip for a moment and Lavellan watched them, wide-eyed and visibly heartbroken, as they stepped away with it so that the surgeon could get a look at his ribs.

“You want us to stick around, or…?” Varric voiced.

“Yes, please,” Lavellan groaned, swallowing down his bread and eyes fluttering shut as he laid back, allowing the surgeon to press along his aching ribs. “I need someone to heckle me. I miss that.” His face contorted into a wince as someone prodded at the darkened skin along his ruined bones.

“Well, in that case, we should pull up chairs.” Varric replied easily, grabbing a few bundles of blankets and tossing them down onto the floor. He settled down on one and Dorian joined him on the other, the two of them doing their best to keep Lavellan’s mind off the pain for the time being.


	6. Spaces Between, and Other Very Lonesome and Poetic Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope ur ready for PineTown

Lavellan looked more like a hobbled old witch than a religious icon; leading a trailing procession of faithful while draped in rough, ragged blankets and using a long stick as a support as he walked. The sword on his hip ruined the illusion a bit. As did his charming, not-very-witchy features that Dorian had gotten more used to staring at when the time was afforded to him.

Oh, it was like some sort of painting; a princely, handsome figure with a world-worn but still compassionate brow. His skin and hair were dull from his one-man trek but the flush and the shine was slowly returning. It was like watching a corpse slowly brought back to life. He'd gotten used to his profile: that sloped, elven nose and dark eyes peering out at the horizon lain ahead. His form was hidden beneath his borrowed shroud, but Dorian didn't need it to paint a pretty picture. There was something to him, even when Dorian could only watch from afar; an amiable quality to his gaze, perhaps. He was maybe ten paces at the closest, when they were walking. Still, it seemed like they were worlds apart.

He wasn’t going to let Lavellan die (again) without having ogled him satisfactorily, that was a _fact._ Between the winks of sleep he’d earned since Lavellan’s return, he’d done plenty of productive things. He’d memorized the way the elf would look his way, then smile, then wave. He’d taken stock of the warm, fuzzy feeling he got when he spotted Lavellan with his wolf carving tight in one hand, keeping it close like a special charm. He’d _also_ gotten very good at lying to himself about what any of that meant.

He could afford this, he thought. To ignore his usual paranoia about how such moon-eyed staring would look to others, or where his thoughts and those stares might lead. The people around him were haggard; more focused on keeping alive than paying mind to whatever little fantasy he was one-sidedly acting out. Because, he told himself, that’s what it was. A fantasy. Their long winded journey to _wherever_ Lavellan led them would eventually be over. Then, it would be back to writing up reports on Venatori, drinking away his meager allowance, and dreaming up far-fetched scenarios as it suited him.

When he slept, which was not as often as it should have been, Lavellan was guarded. It was by Cassandra, typically, who would station herself loyally outside his tent. _A way to prove to herself,_ Dorian supposed, _that she was worthy of standing at Lavellan's side._ He would never voice such a hypothesis to the woman (for risk of getting socked in the head), but based on his own previous experience of reoccurring dreams--the last glimpse of Lavellan as they ran, watching him as he was swallowed up in a red fog--he didn't need to.

Before Lavellan had come back to them, and indeed, some time after, there were passing sneers and hateful glances sent towards all of the Herald's final chosen. They could claim that his final act was to save them; that fleeing was an order they could not refuse. But until Lavellan returned, it didn't matter what the truth was. _They_ were still the ones who lived where their precious Herald had died. The ones that should have perished in his stead. That was their job, wasn't it?

It didn't bother Dorian to be a sneered-at outcast, least especially amongst grubby refugees. But he could understand perfectly well how those glances and glares could wear upon someone not so used to such treatment. To have been someone respected, or perhaps adored (in Varric's case, anyway) and to suddenly, without a say, be spat upon like so much rubbish. It was enough to make him pity the Seeker, despite... everything.

So Cassandra would sit on the dirt outside--or a stool, if she could be afforded one--and read. A distraction from both the cold and the worry that Lavellan could still die here; comfortably within their grasp but forever out of their control. She could still fail him. Common ground wasn’t something he thought he would find between the two of them, whether in plight or favoured pastime. It gave Dorian someone to talk to aside from Lavellan, at least, which was a pleasant prospect. With the elf so often made to rest, it didn't afford much time to chat, but Dorian could hardly find it in himself to argue.

Varric would play cards with him when they had a surface to play on, but even gambling lost its level of amusement after a while. So, when Dorian decided to endeavor to make a friend--something he would _have_ to include in his next letter home--he was hesitant of where to start. Gifts had worked before, so why not try it again? At first, Cassandra was clearly suspicious of his intentions. But his peace offering of a well-worn (and very shitty) bodice ripper helped to smooth things over.

To his surprise, Cassandra had offered him one of Varric’s books in return. The secret that she read his works was a special little gift that Dorian held close to his heart. So, when Varric (unsurprisingly) caught him reading Swords and Shields by the fire one evening, he swallowed his pride and said the book belonged to him. The ribbing was annoying, to be sure, but the warm, cloying feeling of _friendship_ helped to distract him. Even as Varric spread the news steadily across the Herald’s inner circle. Even as Lavellan’s characteristic I’m-about-the-rib-the-ever-loving-fuck-out-of-you tone piped up from behind him when he was reading next to the fire at mid-morning a few days later.

“I heard the most _delightful_ rumour.” Was the greeting. Dorian perked up, using his thumb to mark his page as he slipped the book closed. Lavellan made his way to his side, still swaddled in threadbare blankets with his hair pulled back in a loose bun. He had that lazy, shit-eating grin he wore when he was winning at cards or about to do something he _knew_ would get on someone’s nerves. Dorian braced himself; his Herald-studying had come in handy in that respect.

“Did you?” He asked. "Do share."

“Mm,” Lavellan replied, giving a deep nod, “someone told me you were reading Varric's work. I had to come see for myself.” In an act of melodrama, Dorian let out a long sigh and flipped his book to show the red cover. Lavellan read the title, cheeks crinkling with deep-set dimples at the discovery. He looked up at the mage, lips twitching in a pursed smile, clearly trying to push down a few choice comments. He cleared his throat loudly and forced his cheeky grin to something more professional.

“So it’s true.” Lavellan said, matter-of-fact.

“Go on, make your jokes.” Dorian invited, not bothering to feel ashamed. It wasn’t like Lavellan was the type to genuinely disparage someone over their likes. He was too soft-hearted for something like that. “I know you’ve got plenty.”

“Can I ask you something instead?” Lavellan inquired, tilting his head. His tone changed to something less teasing.

“Of course.” Dorian replied, readying himself for something more serious as soon as his phantom smile began shriveling to nothing.

“Are people… nice to you?” Now _that_ wasn’t the question he was expecting. _Where did you get the book_ _,_ perhaps, or _how are you doing in this inhospitable southern climate?_ Not… this.

“Nice isn’t the word I’d use,” Dorian replied, snorting despite himself, “but I get on fine. Thank you for asking.” Lavellan’s expression hardened into something fit for scolding.

“Well, if you’re having trouble, you can talk to me about it.” A hand wrestled out from the bundle of blankets to rest gently on Dorian’s shoulder, fingers digging, stern, into his skin. He had to look away from the concerned gaze Lavellan set upon him for fear of crumbling under it. “You’re a good friend, Dorian, and a better person than what people give you credit for.” Dorian opened his mouth, then closed it. What was he supposed to say to that?

“Don’t say anything.” Lavellan ordered softly, evidently spotting his crisis. “Just remember that for me.” Dorian’s lips warped into a frown. He couldn’t just _say_ that sort of thing without giving him a moment to prepare.

“...Dare I ask what brought this on?” He inquired, venturing to look back up at Lavellan’s heartwarmingly sincere expression. The elf’s eyes dropped to where his hand still rested on Dorian’s shoulder.

For a passing moment, Dorian realized how truly different they were. More than their backgrounds, or the way they looked; everything Lavellan did--everything he _said--_ cloyed with unrestrained sincerity. He _felt_ and it showed in every facet. The creasing of his brows or the pursing of his lips or the way his dark brown eyes danced back and forth, staring into the middle-distance. Like an artist, working together just the right words to sink another claw, stubbornly, into this mage’s fool heart. He made being maskless look effortless and Dorian could hardly fathom living so free.

“When you’re alone, you always look like you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Lavellan said, keeping his voice low. Private. He removed his hand from Dorian’s arm and he found himself missing the familiar comfort of it. “I just want you to know that, even if you don’t want to tell me about it, you’re not alone.”

Dorian held back a heavy sigh. Lavellan, the Herald--the _bloody_ Herald of _Andraste--_ was leveling with him as if he, too, was fighting to ensure the fate of the world. The naïve kindness of it was almost patronizing.

“Thank you.” He said lowly, pursing his lips shut before any more thoughts could come tumbling out. No matter how Lavellan reassured him, he couldn’t put his problems in his lap. He wouldn’t. His personal life was one thing he wouldn’t let Lavellan solve, no matter how he wished he could. A small, bittersweet smile crossed Lavellan’s lips and he patted the back of Dorian’s hand with his warmer one, where it had come to rest atop his borrowed book.

“You’re quite welcome.” Lavellan replied, sunken eyes softly closing as he gave him a polite nod. “We’ll be moving again soon. Enjoy your book.” Another chaste pat on his hand and Lavellan was leaving once more. The cloying warmth and the embarrassed shame he left in his wake were at odds with one another. Dorian slipped his thumb out from the book, losing his page to the expanse of parchment between covers. He wouldn’t be able to focus on his reading, anyway.

-

Skyhold was a welcome sight. Once the procession cleared the slope and started down the snowy path to its front gate, it was like everyone had let out a collective sigh of relief. To Dorian, the idea of a bath and a proper bed had never been so tantalizing. It might not be for another few nights, but it was coming. Things were better, now, to be sure. For the moment, at least, he could settle for a solid structure to keep out the wind.

Lavellan spared him a smile when he passed the gate, already standing alongside his advisors and taking stock of the incoming throngs. His skin had lost its bluish sheen with time, his cheeks appeared less sallow and his eyes less worn. He was still wrapped up in ragged blankets when his advisors escorted him to one of the less collapsed-looking buildings within the courtyard. For rest, most likely. Dorian had wandered off, not too keen on another emotionally-charged talk if he could help it. No, he needed some time to be alone. _Not that he didn’t have an overwhelming surplus of that,_ he thought.

He found himself in an upper floor library after a few hours’ wandering, looking over the banister to the shadowy rotunda below. The air was thick with dust and most every surface had cobwebs, but he could work with it. There was an especially charming corner that had a view of nearly all the grounds if one stood at just the right angle. The bluish light filtered in through the grubby glass and lit up the alcove, cutting through the curtains of dust around him. It could use candles. Proper books, maybe a chair. A _divan,_ even. Something he could read in or hide behind, as the need suited him. Yes, this would do.

He set down his travelling pack in the empty alcove, staking his claim to it. A few sneezes came, only seeming to kick up more dust around him. Rubbing fitfully at his nose with one hand, he moved to wrestle with the rusted hinges of the window. He worked the latch undone and urged it open with the heel of his palm, letting out a victorious noise when it creaked open. The draft it brought was cold, but it helped to clear some of the ancient dust.

A ruckus caught his attention. He had to lean sideways out the window to see, but once he caught sight of the front steps, the cheering rabble made more sense. Lavellan, stripped of his protective layers of blanket and looking visibly tense even from a distance, stood at the top of the steps. Cassandra was speaking to him, the tight knot in her brow _also_ visible from afar. Lavellan looked from her to another party Dorian couldn’t see. He reached for something--a sword--and turned to face the crowd. The distant sound of Cassandra’s lilt carried on the wind.

“Have our people been told?” She shouted to the crowd. The people's cheers grew louder.

“Will they follow?” Cassandra called next. Cullen’s authoritative tone barely carried over the sound of the rabble. Dorian couldn’t quite make out his words. All, except _Inquisitor._ Another, louder cheer punctuated the courtyard. Lavellan raised his sword and the racket crescendoed. Dorian couldn’t help a small, proud smile.

The weeks of wandering the wilds, helping every country bumpkin they stumbled across had finally come to a head. He was getting the recognition he deserved. Once Lavellan was pulled along to attend to something else, Dorian climbed back from the window and returned to his task at hand. He had a bit of interior decoration to do.

The chair was easy enough. There was a storage room stacked high with dusty, chantry-themed furniture down by the overgrown garden that Dorian helped himself to without much care. He selected the most plush sitting chair he could find that he could both carry up the library stairs and bear to look at without going blind. It was a dark brown wood, its back carved into the signature eye of the chantry. Any younger and the faded, dust-stained burgundy of its upholstery would’ve been veritably gauche. Tucked in against the window with a few threadbare throw pillows and a stolen blanket and Dorian had his bedroom/study for the time being. At least until he could pester his way into getting his own bed. And his own bed _room._

At least the library shelves weren’t completely barren. There were a few tomes that seemed to crumble to dirt under his touch, but there were also a few half-decent historical accounts and atlases still on the shelves. He picked out the especially helpful items to pass along to Leliana and then thumbed through the driest biographies to pick out which would be most suitable for supporting candles. That was another thing he nabbed from the storage room; a plethora of candles with blood-red wax. He could just about light up the entire library for centuries to come.

He'd snatched up an old iron candelabra, half-consumed by cobwebs, and carted it along to tuck in beside the window. He supposed that he could also do with a rug for his alcove. He made a note to put in a request with Josephine once she’d gotten rid of her half-crazed diplomatic smile. He made another note to set aside a bottle of whatever chantry vintage he could find to give to Josephine in thanks.

 _The next one,_ he told himself, pouring a drink of cheap Antivan red into one of the chipped wood cups they used in their travel across the Frostbacks. _The next one_ _would be for Josephine_. He corked the last bit and set it down, half-hidden, behind his newly-acquired reading chair. He savoured his wine in one hand and held Cassandra’s book in the other, doing his best to convince himself that he was _definitely_ actually paying attention to the book. Not to the echo of Lavellan’s comforting words still replaying stubbornly in his traitorous mind, or the ghost of his hand on his arm, or the tapping footsteps of Leliana and her agents as they passed his alcove.

He _definitely_ hadn’t glanced up every time someone passed, half-hoping it was the _Inquisitor_ on his way through, if only for a glimpse of the elf before he was stolen away by something more important. He could've gotten up and searched him out. Still, his fool heart told him to stay where he was. To play coy--or hard to get, depending on how things went--and keep his distance. Still, he was left at Lavellan's mercy, as he always seemed to be. Waiting, wanting, and anticipating whatever he would be given.


	7. Memory and Disappointment Are Brothers in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lavellan: you're my friend, no matter what  
> dorian:  
> lavellan, a little while later: you're my friend, no matter what  
> dorian: :o

Sometimes, Dorian wondered just what horribly fucked-up thing he’d done and then proceeded to forget about sometime in his tumultuous past. Had he scorned someone to death? Unknowingly trampled a family of holy rats? What could have possessed the Maker, benevolent as he was meant to be, to curse him with the peculiar sense of not being able to shut the _fuck_ up? No truly benevolent deity would be so cruel as to put such a burden upon a good--no, even _average_ \--man. Dorian was not so arrogant to think himself especially kind or charitable. But surely, there was something to be said for _not_ being a horrible arse to _everyone_ he’d met.

Evidently, he’d scorned the Maker at some point. Because he couldn’t seem to stop himself, even as the words left his lips and he felt shame rise in his stomach. Lavellan’s brows were raised, cinched together with a sort of annoyed confusion that only made matters worse. It only hastened more explanations, then more, and then Dorian was rambling about slavery and _oh, it’s not the worst thing that could happen_ , to the very sort of man who, in another life, could have very well been in that _not-the-worst-thing_ ’s position. Dorian liked to pride himself as being discerning. Or, at the very least, able to read a _fucking room_.

Maybe it was an off day. One where he didn’t realize, before speaking, that skirting the edge of earnest-but-apologetic was undoubtedly more suitable than shooting his mouth like an idiot. In the moment, it was a debate, where Dorian fell into that comfortable place he always did where he and Lavellan were as equals to each other. Lavellan, the Inquisitor in this world and a peasant Dalish in another. Dorian, loyal lackey and Tevinter altus in another.

By all accounts, most would have expected them to be at odds, at some points. There should have been things he would be ashamed to say, either as an Altus or as an agent to the Inquisition. But those moments had been few and far between and thus, he was out of practice with holding his tongue. But for once, the easy familiarity he fell into--where Lavellan was just _Lavellan_ and they could speak casually--served to be a mistake. A big one.

Now, he was left alone with the heavy silence of the library and nothing to distract himself from his own hasty words replaying in his mind. He had lectured the Inquisitor--and that was _the Inquisitor_ , not Lavellan--on slavery. Elven slavery. To an _elf_. He had no doubts that things would be far less comfortable, now. Speaking out of turn would be a luxury he could no longer afford, he was quite certain. Even if Lavellan didn’t come by for any more little _chats_ , he wouldn’t be altogether surprised if the Herald kept communication to a minimum. His pride ached at the thought of apologizing; not that he was too arrogant a man to _ever_ apologize (Maker forbid!), rather it was the particular topic that was the issue. Guilt roiling in his gut told him that it was what had to be done. As long as he wasn’t getting tossed out of Skyhold before he could get a word out. Footsteps returning to his alcove told him that he might not get that chance.

“Dorian.” Lavellan addressed, tone firm. Grim, almost. He looked up from the book he was pretending to read, suppressing a grimace.

“What can I do for you?” He replied, keeping his voice breezy, despite the dread he felt. It crept into his fingers and made them tingle with numbness. _Get your things,_ he could already hear him saying.

“...There’s a letter for you.” Lavellan supplied, extending a piece of folded parchment, brows still knit. Dorian reached out a hand and took the note with clear hesitation. He couldn’t discern its nature from Lavellan’s expression alone. It was grim, jaw set hard and lips pulled into a thin line. There was a tinge of sadness to his eyes. If he didn’t read the letter, maybe he couldn’t be kicked out.

Still, under Lavellan’s gaze, he was pressured. He unfolded it, eyes narrowing at the familiar handwriting. His gaze skipped to the bottom--to the signature; _Halward Pavus_ \--and he spoilt it for himself. Still, he read and re-read the letter. He found his lips winding into a sneer. A feeling of resigned worry told him he had a good chance of making a fool of himself for a second time, today.

-

Dorian hesitated just outside the door to the tavern, lips pressed tight together. The crunching of Lavellan’s steps on the gravel behind him stole his growing worry in the form of a tight sigh. The familiar clap of a hand on his shoulder had him leaning, limply, into the touch. Lavellan's casual contact was surprising, at first, but it was something Dorian had grown to covet. It was grounding, and a reminder of just how little contact he'd grown used to.

“This is all you, Dorian.” Lavellan informed. Distantly, he could hear Varric’s laugh from somewhere in the market, a million miles away. “You’re in charge. I’ll stay or go whenever you need me to, alright?” Dorian found himself nodding haltingly.

 _Oh,_ how easy it would have been if Lavellan could just be unkind. If he could take over for him, steer him through for better or for worse. Solve his problems, the way he did for everyone else. But he couldn’t, could he? Even if he could hand all Dorian wanted from the meeting on a gilded platter, it still wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair. As unpleasant as it was, he had to do this. He spared a glance over his shoulder.

“Lavellan, just…” He trailed off, letting out another hard sigh, “...whatever happens...” He couldn’t bring himself to finish. What would he ask of him? _Don’t hate me, once this is over?_ They still hadn’t spoken about the argument that came before the delivery of his father’s letter. _Tell me it doesn’t matter, give up your opinions, and appease me?_ It felt the same, either way he said it. Like an unfair expectation. He shook his head and Lavellan’s gloved hand squeezed on his shoulder.

 _“Whatever happens_ ,” Lavellan voiced, “you’ll always be my friend.” He offered the mage an encouraging smile before dropping his hand. He gestured to the door before them. Summoning himself, Dorian pushed it open.

-

The forest around them felt too silent for all the words running through Dorian’s mind. Lavellan’s boots were on the shore, piled along with his jacket. Dorian’s articles weren’t far. The Inquisitor was knee-deep in the lake, skimming the pebbly ground for plants. Occasionally, he would find a smooth stone to toss. It would skip over the water a great distance before landing with a plop somewhere near the horizon. Then, after watching the water still, Lavellan would go back to picking through the dirt.

Dorian was caught between staying silent, as he felt he should, and saying every word on his mind. His talk with his father had thrown him for a loop, and now he didn’t quite trust himself to find the middle ground. Lavellan didn’t push him to speak, but didn’t bother to make idle conversation. It made Dorian feel raw, though he supposed the intention was to not downplay the scene he’d been privy to. It was simultaneously decent and cloyingly bothersome.

That same thought came back to dog him. Was this simply a part of Lavellan’s friendship? Honest kindness; a sort of interpersonal wisdom that made Dorian feel equal parts cherished and shy? Lavellan seemed to be a font of endless forgiveness. His previous blunders with the elf hung in his gut like a lead ball. Little, hateful things he’d said but hadn’t meant. He’d never apologized, but Lavellan had seemed to simply smile and forgive him anyway, like one would a child. Expecting them to understand, someday, and deciding that would be enough. Was that what he was? Just another disciple to be cared for, hopefully steered the right direction?

Being treated with such forgiveness was a warmth he hadn’t felt in… maybe ever. Maybe since he _was_ a child. Before his tantrums grew past crying, fat-cheeked, to causing a scene at a dinner party to get some gratification out of his father's embarrassment. But he couldn’t help, selfishly and irrationally, to hope for something more. Never _more-_ _more_ , but at least a chance at proving himself to be _worth_ that tender care Lavellan was so eager to give anything with a pulse. He coveted those kind smiles and encouraging words the way he thought they ought to be. Living so long without an easy source for such kindness left him like a dying man in a desert, smothered by a thousand miles of ocean.

But what did he want? _More_ , he told himself, before pushing it down. _More_ was a thought too foolish to entertain. Sex, maybe. Sex, _obviously,_ but he knew that it wasn’t just that. Sex was in another camp from honest friendship but it was what could come from them _both_ that he found himself pulled towards. Even as he forced himself to be blind; pretend he definitely, totally _wasn’t_ hoping for something so hopeless.

Dorian tossed a stone. It landed with a splash a great distance from them. He willed the throw to take the distress from his mind, but it didn’t work. Not really. He let out a weak sigh and waded to be at the same depth as the Inquisitor, stiff dread rolling in his stomach with each step. Lavellan continued picking through the water, eyes fixed on his deft hands even as the mage came to stand beside him.

“Thank you.” Dorian murmured weakly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Welcome.” Lavellan replied easily, taking a lotus pod in his hands and picking the small pellets from it. Silence fell again as he worked, placing every treasure ever-diligently into his leather satchel.

“What’s your father like?” Dorian asked quietly, looking for anything to take his mind off it. Or maybe he was just trying to torture himself. Lavellan let the pod sit gently under the water once more. He paused for a long moment, his hands resting under the gentle waves.

“...I don’t know.” He replied in earnest. Dorian had been trying to keep his eyes on the horizon, but the reply had him turning to look at the elf with raised brows. Lavellan still faced forward, watching the middle distance. He took his hands from the water and picked at the sand under his nails, brows drawing together. An apology was already on his lips before he was being interrupted.

“I can’t remember him,” he said, letting out a sigh, “I can’t remember anything from before the Conclave.” Dorian’s brows raised another inch. Lavellan still didn’t turn to look at him.

“Oh,” Dorian murmured dumbly. Awkward shame climbed into his chest. He’d dragged the elf all the way to Redcliffe to deal with his own family trouble when Lavellan couldn’t even _fathom_ having family to make trouble with. He'd been so consumed by his own petty problems that he failed to see any others. His lips parted in the start of another apology, which Lavellan must’ve felt coming.

“I’ve… come to terms with it. And what it might mean.” He said, cutting him off. Dorian tilted his head, willing the elf to look at him. There was a resigned sadness in his face. Dorian ached to take that sadness away and give him back his usual lazy smile.

“What it might mean?” Dorian repeated. Lavellan gave a stiff nod.

“I don’t know who I was before all this. The sort of man I was. I get glimpses, sometimes. Less, now, since the Breach is sealed.” He replied evenly. “The places I lived, or the people I knew. People I would have helped.” Oh.

The days and weeks of annoyingly selfless community service came to mind. Trudging through snow, mud and sand to go the distance for a stranger, spurred on by half-truths or shaky, vague information.

“I don’t have anything left of the person I once was. I may never know; my name, my home, everything. All I can do is hope to trigger more memories and do right by who I was in the process. I don't know my parent's names or their faces, but I can at least try to make them proud.” He let out a nervous-sounding chuckle.

Dorian, as well as plenty of other party members, didn’t tend to be as dedicated as the Inquisitor when it came to baseless charity. He'd thought that it simply came with the title. His many complaints trickled through his mind, starting another parade of shame in his gut. Dorian looked down at his hands, missing the moment when Lavellan finally looked over to him, wearing a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t miss the gentle hand that came to rest on his upper arm.

“That includes helping people. Especially my friends,” he said, stern, “standing by them. Helping them to face the parts of themselves that they would rather not see.”

Looking up at the Inquisitor was a mistake, in that moment. He looked uncharacteristically stern. His dark eyes moved back and forth over the mage’s face, imploring him to understand. To believe, and to trust. For a long moment, Dorian considered it; bearing every vulnerable part of himself to this offensively kind man. Putting his heart into his hands, for better or for worse, and simply enjoying the feeling regardless of what would come next. For a long moment, the stubborn paranoia that dogged his every instinct like second nature; telling him to hide his gaze or push down his thoughts, ever insistent, went silent. For a long moment, it was just the two of them, standing in Lake Calenhad, the cold water seeping into their shins and Lavellan’s hand the only warmth he needed as a balm against it. He made a silent prayer _\--pleading_ to the Maker--that this long moment wouldn’t be the last of its kind.

“It takes a brave man to challenge tradition and be true to himself. It takes a braver man to stand in the face of opposition and hold to that truth. Doubly so when that opposition comes from those you thought would be at your back.” The hand on his arm squeezed and Lavellan’s lips twitched into a small smile. “You don’t need to be afraid of that with me. I’m here to support you, whether it be for your victories or your losses. You’ve earned my friendship, wholeheartedly.”

Dorian pushed down a whine as his heart pulled, aching, in his chest. His words ran through his mind on repeat, blotting out the shame and sadness of the day’s earlier events. He turned, pulling Lavellan into a hug without paying creed to the anxious paranoia clawing at the back of his mind. He focused hard on the feeling of Lavellan’s arms wrapping around him in return, eyes squeezing shut. He took in every detail so he could remember it again once the moment had passed. The elf’s robes were smooth against his cheek and smelled like prophet’s laurel and pine.

“This is nice,” Lavellan hummed, breezy nature now reclaimed, calling the tender moment to a close. Dorian mourned the loss of it but hung onto the hug until Lavellan released him. He was thankful, dully, that they were alone. Though the wilderness wasn’t a favourite place for a heart-to-heart, the privacy was choice. He didn’t need spectators to watch him cling to the Inquisitor like a mooning chantry sister shocked into fainting. The boyish smile the elf flashed shook any remaining embarrassment from his mind. Dorian drew back his hands to his sides, but Lavellan’s lingered at his shoulder.

“I’m happy to keep hugging you, but I think my toes might be turning blue.” Lavellan simpered, giving Dorian a pat before sloshing away to return, jogging with comically tall steps, to shore. Dorian let out a weak chuckle, thoughts still racing, and trailed along behind him.

“I’ll have to get you to give me an especially saucy embrace sometime. It could cause a _fantastic_ scandal,” he lamented, layering the melodrama to make up for the utter _exhaustion_ he felt, both emotionally and physically, “Perhaps something theatric; I’m certain Mother Giselle would shit her smallclothes of shock if she saw it.”

“Suppose now I _have_ to do it, just to see if you’re right.” Lavellan replied, tugging on his boots with a growing smile. He slipped his jacket back on and met the mage to begin their ascent back towards camp. Lavellan wrapped his arm around his shoulders, squeezing him in a final half-embrace before they broke through the foliage. When they pulled away, Dorian wondered, dully, if Lavellan would've kissed him when they were in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're ready for some camping and stuff


	8. The Rain That Washes

The closer they drew to Crestwood, the more bitter the weather grew. Was all of Ferelden this dreary and he hadn’t noticed? Or, perhaps the tiny area was hoarding all the poor weather to itself. Either way, Lavellan theorized, the clouds were following them. He spared another glance up at the blackened sky from beneath the readily-leaking wood roof above their encampment, lips drawn into a frown.

He loved the rain. It was fresh, and it seemed to wash away the dirt and dust that clung to everything like a pox. Lightning storms were amazing shows of power; ones he would be happy to stay up late watching, feeling the touch of the gods with every flash of light across the heavens. But this? This wasn’t rain. This was a particularly bold fog. It was a misting of cool water that soaked into everything it touched, chilling it and leaving it sopping without anything fun to cause it. Lavellan already found himself susceptible to the chill that hung in the southern air, but this rainy imposter forced the cold into his _bones._

Needless to say, by the time they’d reached camp for the night, he was parked by the fire almost exclusively. It took more effort than it should’ve to keep himself from shaking like a leaf. His pain-high wandering through the snowy wastes some month before felt like a hazy, cold dream. But compared to the very _current_ ice in his marrow, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been so cold.

“Tea?” Varric asked, his voice punctuating the quiet. He held out a small wooden cup, heavy with steam, that Lavellan reached for almost instinctively. “Put a little something special in it, just for you.” He informed, sending him a conspiratory smirk.

“Dare I ask?” Lavellan chuckled, already taking a sip of the hot drink. It scalded his lips, but he was too chilly to care. The taste was spiced and dark, the familiar acerbic warmth of wine following the earthy flavour of the tea. Varric watched him expectantly, searching for praise. Lavellan lolled his head to one side and provided him with the most thankful look he could muster.

“Varric, you’re...” he started, “... what’s a good word to describe someone who’s... handsome, heroic, kind--”

"Don't forget clever."

"--and clever, yes."

“Gallant.” Varric suggested. “And dashing. Sagacious is good, too. Though you really need all three to get the _full picture._ ” Varric gestured vaguely at himself. Lavellan nodded sagely, looking back to the lazy attempt at mulled wine in his hands.

“You’re very gallant, Varric. And those other things, too. Thank you.” He said, a small smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

“I’m honoured, Boots.” The dwarf replied, settling down onto the damp ground beside him. “So,” he started, taking up his more gossipy tone. Lavellan still made little marks on the map in his lap as Varric geared up to talk shit, or whatever he was intent on doing.

“How’s my favourite Inquisitor doing?” Lavellan didn’t look up from the map. He could feel Varric's incoming semi-paternal scolding. _Take a break_ this, or _relax a little_ that. As if it were so easy.

“Cold, mostly. Could do with some dinner.” He replied. In his periphery, Varric must’ve shot a pointed look across the fire. He begat a grunt from Blackwall, who was busy whittling potatoes down to their good bits for whatever supper could be made.

“Don’t see _you_ helping,” The warrior grumbled, tossing another cubed potato into the pot of water next to his little work station. It was mostly barrels and planks of unused wood next to a stool. The bare-bones crew of three scouts keeping the camp up to date had long since fled their haphazard workspaces, electing instead to wander the edges of the camp as far from the party (namely the Inquisitor) as possible. Lavellan finished marking up his map and so he slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.

“Can I help?” Lavellan asked.

 _“No,”_ Varric answered, interrupting whatever Blackwall’s answer would have been. Which was likely a similar, if less blunt, response. Varric placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder, keeping him firmly planted where he was. “Take a load off. You’ve been running around, doing Maker-knows-what for _weeks_. The least you can do is relax.”

“No thanks.” Lavellan replied flatly, patting the dwarf’s hand. “I think if I stay sitting here, I’ll stop feeling my arse.” He wriggled out of Varric’s grip and climbed to his feet, his hot drink now forgotten.

“If you need something to do, you can chop wood for the fire.” Blackwall suggested, poking the embers to make his point, its flames fizzling to a few small puffs over the smoldering ash. Lavellan shot him a bright smile and a nod before venturing out from under their meager wooden shelter.

There was a small wood chopping block with a similarly-built wood cover just outside their camp. The wood waiting to be chopped was damp from the misting of rain, but with luck, it could dry out by the fire well enough. He placed a log onto the block and guided his strike carefully before taking the axe down in one hard strike. It cut straight through the log, its two halves falling apart with a satisfying _thunk_.

Lavellan cast aside the wood into a pile before starting another log. He was setting a fourth onto the block when something made his hair stand on end. Pausing, he stuck the axe and looked over his shoulder. Past the light of the camp was all but storm-ridden land. Some groves of trees, some rolling hills. All cast in gloomy darkness. As he turned back to the chopping block, a figure in the trees caught his attention.

It was a shadow, nothing more, but a glint of fire stole his gaze. Lavellan passed out from under the protection of the wooden housing to wander nearer the forest border. The closer he came, the more he could make out the figure by the trees.

“Would’ve thought you’d like to sit somewhere warmer.” Lavellan greeted, stepping over a thick root to climb onto the one pressing into Dorian’s side. The mage looked up from the small puff of flame he worked between his hands, a weak smile already on his lips. They hadn't spoken much since Redcliffe--moreso on Dorian's side than Lavellan's--but the elf was quick to give him whatever space he felt he needed.

“And _I_ would’ve thought you’d take time to relax.” Dorian replied. Lavellan pressed back against the tree and watched the dark sky.

“A popular sentiment,” Lavellan said, “alas, idle hands.” He waved his own for emphasis. He clapped them together and rubbed them to work up some warmth. “How're you doing?”

“Not great. But... better.” Dorian replied, brushing back his damp fringe. He pulled a bundle closer to himself. A covered book, perhaps. Lavellan was silent for a long moment. He searched his pocket with one hand as his other drew Dorian’s attention. He held out his little carved wolf, a quaint frown on his lips. Dorian made a vague gesture for explanation, not moving to take it.

“It’s… comforting to me. My lucky charm. When I’m worried or frightened, it gives me strength, and it helps to keep me safe when nothing else can. I want you to borrow it. A'least until you feel better.” Lavellan wiggled the carving in his fingers, coaxing him into action. He forced a good-natured smile as Dorian reached out, not looking especially invested. The elf pressed the carving into his palm before trapping his hand between both of his own.

“Thank you.” Dorian murmured politely, not seeming entirely earnest. His eyes focused more on their hands than the smile Lavellan was leveling him with. Lavellan pushed his fingers to curl around the carving before taking his own away. No matter how it helped him, Dorian needed it more than he did. _When would he stop giving?_ he wondered. He told Dorian about his unfortunate truth--about his lack of memories, and how it left him without answers in all things--and now, he was giving away the only thing which grounded him when joking and smiling failed. Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. It felt natural, to give to him. Like a payment for how his presence comforted him, without ever needing to admit it.

“Just keep it safe. It’s a gift from a dear friend and I intend on keeping it.” Dorian clutched the wolf a little closer, letting a small smile cross his lips.

“Right. Will do.” He murmured.

“Blackwall should be done with dinner within the week. Want me to bring you some when it’s ready?” Lavellan asked. Dorian gave a vague hum and nod in turn. Lavellan’s smile grew to something more real. “Should bring him the firewood. I’ll come back, but if you want to be alone…?”

“Company would be nice.” Dorian replied, flashing another weak smile that looked more like a wince.

-

“Food delivery!” Lavellan announced, a steaming bowl in either hand and a blanket thrown over his shoulder as he returned to Dorian’s sequestered spot. He gave the mage his bowl of cooked potato, setting his own down on a knot in the tall root to free up both hands. He unfurled the blanket, tucking himself in beside the mage at the base of the tree and laying it over top both their laps.

“Blackwall is certainly pushing culinary boundaries.” Dorian murmured, letting a lumpy spoonful of potato slop back into the bowl with a grim look. Lavellan took up his own bowl, calling attention to the small packet he worked out of his sodden jacket. It was a small rough-hide envelope sealed with cord, from which he took a pinch of dust and sprinkled it over both their bowls.

“Varric gave me celery salt. Don’t tell anyone.” Lavellan whispered, a boyish grin working across his lips.

“Oh, Maker bless you, honestly.” Dorian chortled, mixing the meager flavouring into the sludge. Lavellan tucked the envelope back inside his jacket and silence fell once more, the two of them picking their way through the bland meal.

“I’m...sorry. For what I said to you before Redcliffe; about home and about...” Dorian spoke up, eyes on the uneven lumps in his bowl, “well, I’m not sorry for what I said. How I said it, rather. It felt like I crossed a line and I want you to know I didn’t intend to.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, catching Lavellan’s easy nod in his periphery.

“I know. You don’t have to worry about me, I see what your intentions are.” Lavellan hummed, taking another lazy bite of the hot foot. It took his mind off the wetness of his boots, at least.

“You make it sound easy.” Dorian huffed, tucking his spoon into his half-empty bowl and setting it aside. The easily-earned apology stole away with his appetite. Or maybe that was the fluttering in his stomach. He clasped his hands over his abdomen with a weary sigh. If sitting shoulder-to-shoulder bothered him, he wasn’t showing it.

“Sometimes _I_ don’t know what my intentions are.” He murmured, matter-of-fact. He laid his head back against the tree, slipping his arms under the wool blanket sprawled over them. A comfortable silence fell once more.

“You know, you’re the only one I’ve told about…” Lavellan trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his spoon in one hand. “...Everything. My memories.” He dropped it into the bowl, free hand moving to the back of his neck to scratch fitfully. “I mean, I’ve told my advisors everything they ought to know. When it comes up.”

“So… I finally know something your spymaster doesn’t? I’m not sure I’m excited by the prospect.” Dorian replied, his voice even with understanding despite his chaffing. Lavellan let out a weak laugh, more of a courtesy than anything.

“Well, you’re easy to talk to. More than that, I trust you. With my life, clearly, and with all my silly little secrets.” Lavellan held the monocoloured mash loosely in one hand as he reclined, as well. Dorian shifted to glance down at him, quirking a disbelieving brow.

“You and I have different definitions of _silly_ and _little_ , then, evidently.” He fought to not repeat the other portion of the sentence on a loop. They were friends, then, evidently. Nothing to get hopes up over. Lavellan let out another humourless laugh which drowned out the weak sigh Dorian gave. It was a portent for whatever heartfelt thing he was about to say and subsequently regret later.

“You know, you've a hundred people asking you for everything under the sun,” Dorian pointed out, one hand sweeping for emphasis as he cast his gaze to the gloomy horizon instead of the man beside him, “I don’t imagine that leaves you with a great deal of time to pore over your own issues.”

“Not exactly, no.” Lavellan agreed, eyes drooping.

“But..." Dorian trailed off, letting out a breath, "I find myself with the _occasional_ modicum of free time these days. If you ever have need of me.” Dorian bumped his shoulder with his own, putting on a smile enough for them both. A smaller, truer one tugged at Lavellan’s lips, but he quickly looked away.

“Sometimes, I think that if I keep helping--keep working--that my own worries will fade away in the background. But they don’t, do they? They just get louder when there’s no one around to help.” Lavellan’s marked palm turned to face up, glowing sickly green in the gloomy air. His other thumb came to trace its swirling lines, face set into a pensive frown.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” Dorian hummed, letting his eyes flutter closed. He was more than happy to let his sappy suggestion fade away with the course of the conversation. Above them, the clouds threatened to part, giving them a final glimpse of the dying sun. Now, though, it only peeked out in slivers of burnt orange. “Maybe some charitable fool will come along and mop up all your worries, exactly the way you do for everyone else. Now _that_ would be a miracle, wouldn’t it?” Lavellan let out a gentle chuckle. With his eyes closed, Dorian could more easily feel the shaking beside him.

“A birthday gift.” The elf replied in a lazy chortle. “For… however old I am. Whenever I am.”

“You can always make something up.” Dorian said. He missed the bittersweet smile that crossed Lavellan’s expression.

“Right.” _Like usual_ , he thought.


	9. A Home, Faded and Veiled, Left to Rot

The sun shone down hard, heating the stone-paved streets underfoot. The brief interlude of burning that came from crossing, barefoot, along the busy street quickly turned to a refreshing cold once he trespassed onto the shaded stone balcony on the other side. The sunlight made his dark robes hot to the touch, stark against his white-blonde hair that seemed to glow in the mid-morning sun. In his hand, a few cold coins. He traced the profile on one side--the curved, strong nose of the Queen Mother. His forefinger found the ship on her underside.

Down the street, the theatrical booming of a few voices, a few calls of _traitor_ or _pusillanimous,_ drew his attention. In amongst the passing rabble was an animated show; two well-worn wooden marionettes acting out a scene atop a rickety stage. Looking forward once more, he tried the cold metal latch. It didn’t budge. Through the glass of the bay window, the vague shapes of the countertop were visible in the meandering darkness. He looked back to the door. Where he stood next to it, the etched title of _Panadería_ was just a collection of rough scratches.

A joyful racket brought his attention back to the street. A stout man, arms full of thick paper bags, led the meager audience in a bout of laughter. His eye shifted, glancing in his direction. Lavellan found himself waving. Snapping to attention, the man spared one last simpering glance to the show before hurrying down the street to where Lavellan stood.

“Good morning.” The man greeted in a drawl, gesturing for him to take one of the tall bags. He was handing it off before Lavellan had even fully taken it, still halfway through his own _good morning_. His now free hand moved to start a chorus of the keys on his hip. He angled himself closer to the door, twisting one of them in the lock without removing it from the loop. He pressed the latch with one thick thumb and they breezed inside.

The man took the bag from Lavellan’s arms, leaving behind white smears of dust along his chest and shoulders. Now bereft of purpose, Lavellan idled near the door as the man walked the bags to a back room. Idly, he tried to rub out the dusty stain.

“Hot today, yeah?” Lavellan called, fiddling with the coins in his hand as he glanced around the warming shop. One wall was all paned glass, a set of patio doors in their midst only identifiable by their curved metal handles. Sparing a glance to the back room where the man had scurried off, Lavellan moved towards them. The handle was warm to the touch, the sun having already had its way with it.

He gave it a gentle turn and the door opened out, welcoming a passing breeze into the shop. The wilted leaves covering one of the patio tables threatened to step inside, as well. Alas, they only kicked up in a whirlwind and carried over the railing to the street beside him.

“It’s the dry heat, you know. That’s why we stay, you never get dry heat here.” The baker replied, voice growing louder as he came out to stand behind the counter. Lavellan turned back inside, vision tinted greenish-blue from the bright yellow world outside. The man was working to tie his apron under the bulge of his stomach, a cap held tight between his lips.

“Sea air _is_ good for the lungs,” Lavellan agreed, meandering leisurely back to the counter. “Or so I’m told.” The baker slipped on his cap, hiding his thinning, wavy grey-black strands.

“Never can believe what you hear these days, can you?” The baker grunted, a bit lighthearted, leaning onto the counter. “Between the princes and the Crows and who knows what else.” Lavellan dipped his head in a long, agreeable nod. He kissed his teeth in a high sound and laid his coin against the worn wood countertop.

“Damn right, you are.” He mused. The baker eyed the coins in passing, already straightening.

“The usual, then?” He asked, back to business.

“The usual. Make it three crostata today, yeah? My man’s going to need it, I can already tell you.” Lavellan replied.

“Oh? More ambassadors?” The baker replied, picking up a few paper wraps. He turned, picking out loaves of seed-speckled bread and delicate, golden-brown pastries to place atop the sheet. Turning back to the counter, he creased and folded the paper as needed to wrap up each little package with a swift, practiced grace.

“Something like that.” Lavellan said with a light laugh. His smile fell as he patted himself down, brows pulling into a crease. “Shit. Don’t have my bag.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the baker reassured, reaching under the counter to find a sack of rough burlap. Lavellan’s face lifted once more as the man placed his goods inside and pushed it towards his end of the counter. “Gotta take care of my customers, right?”

“Ri-ight.” Lavellan drawled. He took up the sack in his arms and bid the baker farewell with a smile, a wave and a word of thanks.

-

Lavellan’s eyes blinked open as he awoke with a start. Heart racing, he gripped the reins tight in his hand out of instinct, startling his horse into stopping. The movement around him meandered to a stop, as well, and the sound of Cassandra dismounting beside him threatened to draw his attention.

It had been too long since his last dream. The feeling of the phantom sun’s heat and the smell of the bakery still hung onto him, even as the cool night air filled his lungs and wicked the warmth from his skin. He didn’t realize his breaths were heaving until Cassandra’s hand gripped his knee to help steady him. Glancing down, her eyes were steely. Questioning, but concerned.

“I’m fine,” He breathed, giving her a shaky nod, “Just… I-I don’t know. Startled.” She looked unconvinced, but released her grip regardless. His breaths grew steadily more even and his heartbeat slowed. He itched to grip at his chest but his chestplate was in the way. The world pressed in on him more fully. He shifted, the hard ache of his saddle becoming more apparent. He hadn't even realized he'd started to drift off.

“We can make camp for the night.” Cassandra suggested, mounting her horse once more.

“No.” Lavellan replied, “we still have a ways to go. We shouldn’t keep Hawke and his friend waiting.” Cassandra lingered, still watching him closely, but took the order with a nod. She urged her horse and took up point, leaving the procession to follow. Lavellan trailed behind her, rubbing at his drooping eyes one at a time.

The longer he stayed awake, the more the details of his dream slipped away. While at first he could still hear the echo of the other man’s voice in his ears and the stuffy warmth of the shop pressing against his skin, he could now hardly recall how it had begun at all. Even worse, the more he grappled for those sights and smells, the swifter they slipped away from him and back into the foggy darkness of his mind. Pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, he let out a frustrated groan.

“I don’t know _how_ you managed to get a wink of sleep while riding that thing,” Dorian piped up, voice growing nearer with the off-beat sound of his horse’s quicker trot as he moved to ride beside the elf. “I can hardly think, let alone rest.” He dropped his limp hand.

“Easy. I just stop thinking.” Lavellan replied, shooting the mage his droopy-eyed smile. “Probably why you’re struggling.” Dorian let out a puff of a laugh in turn.

“Quite.” He scoffed. Lavellan looked forward again, feeling a look of worry cast in his direction, if only for a moment. “Are you... alright?” Dorian asked, tentative, his voice lower than before. It wasn't often that _he_ was the one asking that question, between the two of them. Lavellan swallowed, looking down to the reins in his hand.

“Another memory, that’s all.” He replied. He spared a passing glance, finding a pensive look warping Dorian’s expression. “It’s gone, now, mostly. It was… I was warm. There was bread.” He gave a shrug and laughed despite how lost he felt. “Groundbreaking stuff.”

“Is that usually the sort of thing you see?” Dorian asked, tone betraying his usual easy confidence. Now, it was clear that he was putting in an effort to tip-toe the line of comfort. Lavellan itched to look around and make sure no one was listening in. His tired mind told him not to care.

“I see all sorts. All of it feels familiar at the time, and all of it’s out of context. Like any dream, I suppose.” He replied.

“But they aren’t dreams,” Dorian murmured, trying to keep himself from sounding too intrigued, “I’m… sorry. This must be frustrating to deal with.” He said, only coming off a _bit_ clumsy.

“It’s alright.” Lavellan murmured, even if it wasn’t. Not that he was upset at _him_ , per say, but rather at the ordeal. The torture of seeing himself as a whole--feeling like everything was alright--only to have it taken away once more. It left him fractured, feeling the difference between himself in his memories-- _past_ Lavellan--and himself in the waking world; lost and confused, present more in body than in mind.

Then, the more he thought, the more it ached. The more it ached, the more his doubts bubbled to the surface. He was a stranger in his own skin with nothing to call his own. His hair, his voice, his body; all of it a relic of who he was before. Like looking at a fresco of a bygone age, without context, only taken at face value. Any nuance to his person was lost in the jumbled mess of his own identity.

“This is bullshit,” he whined, voice coming out more as a whisper as he quickly contradicted himself. His jaw set hard, a lump forming in his throat. That was his, at least. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced out a shaking breath.

“It’s all bullshit.” A warm hand encircled his own, which was clenched into a fist. Eyes now open, he found Dorian offering him a look somewhere between pity and worry, lips fixed into a soft frown. Lavellan smoothed his other hand over top Dorian’s, trapping it there for a few moments before his horse startled and they had to part.

Lavellan dropped his gaze, face hot with embarrassed shame more at being on the edge of a breakdown than anything else. It had always been a constant; no matter what terrors he faced or pain he endured, he would carry on. He didn’t slow down, for fear of stopping altogether, and he certainly didn’t let himself break. But these doubts sunk in their claws and held on tight no matter how he tried to free himself of them. They whispered into his ear at every chance, and it was all he could do to drown them out with well-wishes and thanks. He could defeat Corypheus, save Thedas and become a lauded hero. But once his task came to an end, what then? Where would he go? What would drown out his doubt?

“If you’d like to chat about something else, I’m sure I could work up a few long and lewd stories for you.” Dorian suggested, an air of tender concern to his voice that Lavellan pretended not to notice, for his sake. Lavellan swallowed down the lump in his throat and looked back up to him once more. He managed a weak smile and a nod.

“I’d like that.” He replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long, dramatic chapter incoming ;)


	10. Idle, Sun-spotted Hands

Lavellan passed out in his tent almost as soon as they made their target camp. They were within another day’s travel of the Western Approach, still on their rough schedule for when to arrive at the ritual tower Stroud had given them vague directions to. It gave them a few hours to resupply and let their horses rest.

Tasks had been assigned early on; Dorian would read up on any reports about Venatori activity on the border of the Approach and condense it into a few concise snippets. Cassandra, with the help of some scouts, would refill waterskins and prepare rations for the travel ahead. Varric had, somehow, argued his way into sitting outside Lavellan’s tent and keeping the paperwork away from their fearless leader while he slept. It was a brave role to take, but he wore it like a badge of pride.

Varric had taken his post some two hours earlier, welcomed by a small stack of paperwork held in place by one large rock. Gallantly, he sat on his jacket and got to work filling out whatever he could. Financial reports--half of which he wasn’t sure Lavellan would even read in the first place--were signed, requisitions were organized and filed to be taken along, and a whole list of Winter Palace preparatory items were flipped through. The dwarf whittled down the work to skimming through the tightly-bound fabric samples Josephine had sent along with them; all for the purpose of selecting the colour of the Inquisition uniform at the masquerade.

Varric didn’t consider himself an aficionado of Orlesian fashion by any stretch, but he knew what looked good and what didn’t on at least a basic level. There were a lot of people to accommodate with a uniform, so he settled for picking out something that looked expensive. Dorian probably could’ve given some commentary on choosing a fabric that was _“just gaudy enough to look lavish, but not so gaudy to be inappropriate.”_ Varric just set aside all mustard yellows, burnt oranges and olive greens as probably-nots and left it at that. Plaideweave was most of that category.

A shuffling and tired grunting from within the tent took him from his intensive plotting. He sat up, brushing aside the sea of paperwork to make it look as though he wasn’t working (an unusual opposite to what he was used to) and looked as nonchalant as possible when Lavellan popped out of his tent. His white-blonde hair was a mess; a hundred smaller hairs wound together in a puffy bundle against his crown and another section pressed awkwardly against his temple. Spotting Varric, he sat down on the sandy ground, squinting in the light of day.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. He rubbed at his eyes, face scrunching in a tired frown. “What’re-you-doing?” He slurred, his lilt jumbling the words together.

“Paperwork,” Varric replied easily, “you decide on anything for the Winter Palace yet?” The question begat a long groan as Lavellan covered his eyes with his hands. Varric patted his shoulder with the back of his hand and he started to slump.

“It’s not _that_ bad. Come on, let’s look together.” Varric encouraged, producing the fabric swatches from where he’d stashed them on the other side of his crossed legs. Lavellan shuffled closer, sniffling in the dry air as he focused his puffy eyes on them in another squint.

“Now, I made a few executive decisions,” Varric prefaced, gesturing gently with one hand. Lavellan’s brows quirked in question, an amused smile already crossing his lips.

 _“Alright_ , _”_ He replied expectantly.

“No plaideweave.”

“You’re pushing your luck.” Lavellan said.

 _“But,”_ Varric stressed, his gesturing more forceful for a moment, “I think you have some good options here. No idea who Ruffles has in mind as a seamstress; how she’s gonna get someone this late in the season for such a big order is beyond me, but if we need it, I have a contact or two we could go to. They could really do some things. Hidden pockets. Maybe some special layering; give you more protection. Who knows, maybe the uniform will survive the night.”

“I… seriously doubt that.” Lavellan replied.

“Well, yeah, obviously, but we can hope. Now, what colour suits your fancy, your Inquisitorialness?” He waved the floppy swatches in Lavellan’s direction with an encouraging smile. Lavellan snatched them from his grip and flipped through them, handing along the contenders. They were all varying shades of reds and purples.

“Do you think we’ll be doing dance practice?” Lavellan asked, his voice faraway as he concentrated on assessing each sample. Varric set aside the discarded swatches and handed back Lavellan’s chosen few to be narrowed down some more.

“Probably. Why, you worried?” Varric asked, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread out in front of himself.

“No, no. I like dancing.” Lavellan replied, rubbing the pad of his thumb along a burgundy broadcloth. “Though usually I’m at least a _little_ drunk when I do it.”

“Yeah, something tells me you won’t have the chance.” Varric sighed, offering the elf a sympathetic smile. Lavellan let out a sound somewhere between an overplayed sigh and a groan.

“I don’t see what it is with these Orlesians. So many layers of useless fibs, just to cover up more of the same. I mean, it’s like a culture of fuck-ups. They lie once and do a shit job so they spend the rest of their life coming up with more lies to cover up the fallout.” It stung as he said it, and he had to hold back the embarrassed laugh that threatened to bubble up. Here he was, accosting people for pointless lies when, at this point, that was most of his patchwork identity. He pursed his lips to cut himself off and instead focused on the fabric samples.

“Well, if you’re lucky, I’ll have time to show you some dances that’ll _really_ shock the court.” Varric suggested, chuckling, “Antivan six-step, maybe.” Lavellan let out a weak chuckle, deciding on a deep red fabric with some weight to it.

“Sounds fun. I’ll be holding you to that.” Varric bound together the rest of the fabric scraps and tucked them away to be forgotten.

“Well, someone’s gotta make an honest man of me someday.” Varric sighed, layering on the melodrama to some meager success. Lavellan let out a truer laugh, at least.

“It’ll not be _me_ , I’ll tell you that,” Lavellan replied, grunting as he worked to his feet. “We’ll be leaving soon, yeah?”

“Easy, Boots. We still have a few hours. If you’re really itching for something to do, you might wanna make sure the Seeker has everything together.” Varric chided, his voice turning to a grumble, “at this point, I don’t know which of you is rubbing off on the other; running around like headless chickens all the time.”

“That reminds me,” Lavellan said, changing course on a dime, “think that contact of yours could get me some nice Antivan leather boots? Had to toss my old ones after they… well. Weren’t boots anymore.” He cut himself off with a bereaving sound.

“I can certainly try,” Varric replied, giving him a nod, “can’t have you living without your namesake, right?”

“Quite. Have to make a good impression on the court, too. I’d love to do it while I'm feeling all... flirty and fun.” Lavellan chortled, fingers moving to comb through his still messy hair now that he had properly awoken. He pulled back the upper half of his hair to stay, sequestered by a leather cord, out of his face.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Varric drawled, “I’ll see what I can do.”

-

“Isn’t this great?” Lavellan drawled, throwing a bright smile over his shoulder to the rest of the party trailing behind him. His hair seemed to glow in the sunlight and his cheeks had already taken up a soft flush from the growing heat of the day. His question earned only a series of groans and an uninvested hum.

“Come _on_ , guys,” Lavellan pleaded, carrying on the conversation one-sidedly, “it’s the sun! We’re warm! Dorian, back me up on this.”

“I would. But this is, unfortunately, a desert wasteland.” The mage replied, letting out a long-winded sigh. Lavellan waved his company off with a flippant gesture and carried on over the blinding orange-yellow sand. Each step made his bare feet half sink into the dry earth, but he was undeterred. He carried on towards the distant shape of the ritual tower with more pep than his usual bare minimum. At least the darkspawn they’d encountered were few and far between.

“I think there’s sand in my smalls,” Varric grumbled, earning a sound of agreement from the Seeker at their flank.

“Chin up, lethallin,” Lavellan encouraged, “it’s not much farther.”

As if the desert heard him and took its cue, the ritual tower seemed to grow more apparent with another few steps. Its distance was more measurable now; nearly two-hundred paces. Hawke and Stroud were little dots on the horizon that grew steadily in size with each pace put behind them. It was another ten minutes before they were within earshot. By that point, Lavellan took up a steady jog to close the last bit of distance and meet with their compatriots.

“I fear the ritual’s already started,” Stroud said, “blood magic, it seems.”

“Today’s setting up to be a great one.” Hawke grunted, “really, just awesome.” He stepped aside, allowing the party to follow Stroud up the steps to the tower.

The air was heavy with the metallic stink of offal and burning hair. The farther they trekked, the stronger the humming of magic in the air grew around them. It pressed down in a familiar way. When they reached the main landing, the open tear suspended in the air before them answered one question. The tail end of a binding ritual answered another.

“What an unexpected pleasure!” A mage, across the landing and upon an elevated platform, dipped into a low bow upon seeing the party approach. “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service!” Lips drawn into a thin line, Lavellan descended the few steps on their side of the landing. He stopped a few strides before the rift, watching the Tevinter from the other side of the shifting green tear.

“Yeah, afternoon.” Lavellan greeted above the noise.

“You’re no Grey Warden,” Stroud hissed, taking a threatening step forward. Lavellan put out a hand at his side on instinct, keeping the man behind him.

“But you _are_. Care to see what your comrades have done to themselves?” Erimond raised a hand and the Warden mages followed suit, eyes glazed over. Stroud let out a stiff curse under his breath.

“Amazing what _fear_ does to people, isn’t it? The Wardens were so terrified of the Calling, all we had to do was dangle a cure in front of their Warden-Commander. Now, the mages are perfect puppets for my master. Just the thing to raise an undying army.” Erimond explained away, gesturing grandly as he did. Lavellan placed his hands on his hips and lolled his head to one side, listening intently. At a pause, the elf raised a polite hand, pushing down a facetious smile.

“Pardon me,” Lavellan interjected, “this is very helpful, but we _are_ running on a schedule, so if we could just kill you now…?” Erimond’s arrogant smile turned to a sneer. Raising a hand, he struck up a spell that consumed it with a sheet of dancing red light. It called out to Lavellan’s mark and the elf let out a yelp of surprised pain as he dropped to one knee. The party seemed to jolt, ready to draw their weapons.

“My master told me how to deal with you, in the event that you attempted to interrupt the ritual,” Erimond gloated, turning his hand and beckoning the mark. It lashed out with an arc of light and Lavellan bit back another sound of pain. The rift warped between them, calling attention to itself. Erimond’s vicious grin was tinted a sickly green under the light of it.

“When I bring him your marked hand, my master will--” Erimond’s continued gloating was cut short when the rift snapped shut between them, severing his connection to the mark and flinging him back a few steps. He stumbled, falling clumsily onto his backside, but was quick to sic the Warden mages upon them before his pride could become too wounded.

The landing dissolved quickly into chaos. Stroud hauled Lavellan to his feet and guarded his front while he recovered himself. He shook out the searing heat of the mark as his other hand grappled for his sword. Hawke caught up with them swiftly, helping to pick off the summoned demons while Lavellan went for a nearby mage.

It should’ve been an easy fight. The Warden mage was sloppy in his movements, barely putting up a barrier when Lavellan swung for him. He blocked a slash with his arm and it sliced through, undeterred. He didn't even flinch at the clean gash. When Lavellan lunged, the mage stepped in, allowing him to pierce his abdomen with his sword. Skewered, the mage went a bit limp, though not as much as Lavellan was used to. _That_ was the first most alarming move. The second was the small, sharp knife that the mage slashed towards him with. It was already covered in a film of drying blood from previous use, which Lavellan got an excellent view of when it cut through the air barely an inch in front of his eyes.

With the last of his strength, the mage followed through with the strike and sliced from the base of Lavellan’s neck to his shoulder, where a final push wedged the blade into a gap in his armor. Lavellan toook in a hiss, the strike playing out too fast for how slow he reacted. He was an observer, only able to dread what could be his final moments. Had Lavellan not ducked and the mage not been impaled on his sword, it might’ve met its mark and slit straight through his throat. Lavellan dropped his sword, mostly out of shock, and the mage crumpled. His heart thudded, making his vision pulse. He could hear the rush in his ears. He took in a few gasping breaths and assessed himself. Distantly, he recognized the sound of Stroud and Hawke arguing behind his back.

Lavellan traced the strike with a shaky hand, finding it cut through both armor and robes. The skin of his neck seemed fine, but the lack of pain could've been his own making. The knife was still embedded in his shoulder, and the familiar light buzz of adrenaline and shock was starting to hit him. He pressed his hand to the wound around the blade and stumbled awkwardly to turn towards the party, face contorted into a wince. He was still too wound up in surprise to let out a sound.

“Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?” Hawke asked, drawing the group’s attention just as Lavellan faced them, his mouth wide with terrified confusion. Cassandra was the first to move to his side, having been the closest, and she steadied the elf with a stable grip. Dorian came next, standing at his other side and inspecting the wound.

"Inquisitor, are you alright?" The Seeker asked carefully, studying his face.

"Not... really." Lavellan murmured, lips pulled into a tight wince. He stumbled, uneasy, as his knees grew a bit weaker. Suddenly, the sun was feeling a bit too hot.

"You should get him back to your camp." Hawke instructed, "we can take care of things out here."

“We will speak more about this later,” Stroud agreed, addressing the Champion. He looked back to the party, face set into something firm. “Inquisitor, Hawke and I will scout for the remaining Wardens. We will be in contact.” Lavellan gave a woozy nod, clenching his jaw tight against the approaching pain. The two of them left the ritual tower in a rush, leaving the remaining four to begin their slow trek back to camp.


	11. A Near Miss and A Killing Blow

As far as not-quite-mortal wounds went, Lavellan was lucky. The nearest Inquisition camp had a scout willing and able to stitch him up. It would be a more effective strategy than slapping a healing spell and a potion on it and calling it fixed. Not to mention, it meant he would be rid of his special new adornment without much risk of bleeding out in the sand.

It put Dorian at ease, at least. The last thing he needed was to perform field surgery. As sure as he was that Varric and Cassandra would be willing to be nurses (perhaps not experienced, but certainly enthusiastic), he wasn’t especially confident in his own skill with the pre-dead. He could cast barriers, of course, but healing spells were a more specific class of magic he knew only the slightest amount about. Small cuts, and the like. He’d hardly ever lived anywhere without access to healing potions which could do just as well.

It was a blessing the camp was so close. Telling Lavellan he was nearly there each time he volunteered to heal the wound himself tended to hold him over. They’d shuffled him into a tent and sat him down on a bedroll before he could do anything to exhaust himself further; a fact Dorian took some solace in even if being pushed out of the tent left the seed of worry in his gut. It was a sensation he rather liked to pretend he wasn’t feeling. A sense that only worsened upon recollection--which was inevitable--of Lavellan’s lost, puzzled look as he was separated from the party.

Dorian sat himself down by the dwindling fire and searched for something to busy his hands. Night was already falling, young as the evening was. With the sun’s swift disappearance, the camp grew colder every passing hour. Watching the dying flames, he told himself that there was nothing to fret over; Lavellan was in good hands, literally. Not to mention, a scout that had the Inquisitor die in their care would certainly be unable to live it down. It wasn’t insurance, per say, but it was a motivator, and a motivated healer was an effective one. Dorian hadn’t noticed his ever-present abstraction-induced frown until Varric approached, looking ready to help remedy it.

The dwarf, if he worried, was pushing it down. He fell into a squat at the mage’s side, then leaned back to sit. In the quiet, Dorian coaxed the fire back to life with a hand.

“...You know that guy?” Varric spoke up. A few crows circled overhead, cawing distantly. Across the camp, the rhythmic scraping of Cassandra’s whetstone added to the gentle clamour.

“Which one is that?” Dorian asked, already guessing the answer.

“The… Eri-something,” Varric replied, waving a dismissive hand, “the nutjob.”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian said, “the nutjob. Lord _Livius Erimond_ of Vy-rantium.” He recited, imitating the mage’s pronunciation, “not personally. I might’ve heard of him, at some point. The family name is familiar, if… only vaguely.”

“So… not a long-lost childhood friend of yours, then, I take it?” Varric ventured.

“No.” Dorian replied, huffing out a laugh. “If that was the case, there would have been far more theatrics, I assure you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Varric said. He grew quiet once more, in the sort of way that he only did when he was about to get more serious. Dorian prepared himself as much as he could without outwardly flinching.

“How you holding up?” He asked, his voice lowering a bit. Everyone seemed to do that when they asked him how he was faring. As if gossiping about his personal struggles was the best people could come up with. With the amount of times Lavellan had stopped by his alcove to share he-said-she-saids, he doubted his daddy issues carried much weight around Skyhold. It was just as well; he was perfectly content to let his problems fade out of view both within the public eye as well as his own mind. He wasn’t even going to act surprised at the notion of Varric knowing… _whatever_ it was he knew about his state.

“Oh, not so bad,” Dorian replied, finding it wasn’t as much of a lie as he was expecting, “why do you ask?”

“Come _on_ , Sparkler,” Varric scoffed, giving him an expectant glance. Dorian’s face twisted in confusion, then to a similarly expectant look in return. “You look like the gloomiest man this side of the Waking,” Varric’s tone was half laugh, half incredulity, “your kicked puppy look is coming on _really_ strong. Too strong for you to act like nothing’s bothering you.” Dorian’s brows pulled into a furrow.

“You’ve found me out,” Dorian replied, his voice more a question than a statement, “I’m… positively desolate. About… something.” If Varric was going to prod him about his talk with his father some week-and-a-half ago, he’d missed his chance. Not that he would’ve been keen to chat about it any sooner, anyway, but...

“Look,” Varric sighed, cutting off whatever snide remark he would work up to, “I’m not Boots. Obviously. You two have the whole best-friends-in-the-whole-wide-world thing going on. I just want you to know that I get where you’re coming from.”

“And where’s that?” Dorian asked. Did Varric have some sort of tumultuous family history he was about to bear his heart over?

“Behind, and slightly to the right of, a heroic idiot who throws himself into danger at every opportunity. I’ve been through it before, and trust me, worrying doesn’t solve anything.” Oh. Dorian bit back a sigh of relief.

“Right.” He chimed, suddenly feeling a bit presumptuous and, consequently, embarrassed.

“And neither does drinking or betting, but they at least help to distract from the former. So, if you ever need a drinking buddy or someone to lose a few sovereigns to, I’m happy to lend my services.” Varric said, flashing him a welcoming smile. Dorian forced a smile of his own.

“Thank you. I’m sure this is an exclusive offer. For that… I am honoured.” Dorian drawled, earning a soft laugh.

“Oh, absolutely.” Varric chimed. Something caught his eye, then, and he glanced over his shoulder. The way he perked up warned Dorian of Lavellan’s approach even before seeing him himself.

“You boys behaving yourselves?” Lavellan drawled, accusatory, his lilt stronger with his evident exhaustion. Dorian twisted to see him closing in on where the two of them sat, upper half swaddled tight in a blanket just the same as after Haven.

“Always.” Dorian replied easily, a soft perk already embracing his lips.

“I should check on the Seeker.” Varric said, climbing to his feet. As he did, one of Lavellan’s hands escaped his threadbare cocoon, landing on Dorian’s shoulder and using it as a support as he lowered himself to a sitting position. Neither Dorian nor Lavellan paid much mind to the poor excuse or the dwarf’s direction, which was nowhere near where Cassandra was sitting.

“So, all patched up?” Dorian asked, acting as a support as Lavellan started to slump. Despite his physical weakness, the elf managed a bright smile.

“Nearly. I’m supposed to rest, lest I get an especially dashing battle-scar.” He replied, shifting the blanket off his shoulders and wiggling his numbed shoulder for effect. He was shirtless, though plenty of his upper body was bandaged in the area of his wound. When the blanket slipped to give a peek of Lavellan’s smooth abdomen, Dorian made a considerable effort to _not_ eye it up. Instead, he put on a look of appraisal as he inspected the bandaged area.

“Yes, well, I’m sure the inevitable scar will suit you.” He said. When Lavellan grinned and looked toward the fire, he allowed himself a glance downwards. It was a poor choice, he already knew it. He only needed _eyes_ to know Lavellan was an attractive man. He'd already done his fair share of ogling; of arms and thighs and backsides and who _knew_ an elf could be so... thick? He was unusually tall, as well. Perhaps there was something human to him, somewhere in his bloodline--

 _Unfortunately,_ he also had a modicum of sense (although occasionally it faltered), which told him the attractive man was _off-limits._

He already liked the Inquisitor more than might've been wise. But sex bore attachment, and attachment to a certifiable martyr was most definitely the _worst_ idea he could come up with. So, he'd be doomed to a future of pining one-sidedly, eventually ending up a heartbroken sop over someone he had no right to be heartbroken over. Figures.

Despite all this, he didn’t look away until Lavellan spoke again and he forced his eyes to the fire lest he was caught in the act. He could at least _try_ to act a gentleman. Really, how desperate was he? Making eyes at the recently-wounded. Figures!

“How are you feeling?” Lavellan rasped, angling his dark eyes up towards him. They looked almost honey-gold in the firelight.

“Everyone seems to be asking me that these days.” Dorian scoffed, taking the moment earned by his dismissive reply to gather his thoughts. Lavellan still watched him expectantly. Where did he get off, playing the caretaker, asking him if he was alright when _he_ was the one who had just gone through a near-death experience? “I’m alright. If you _must_ know, I’m a bit cross that you went and got yourself stabbed.”

“Yeah, believe it or not, that wasn’t a part of my strategy.” Lavellan said, eyes dropping back to the fire.

“At this point, I’m settling for not.” Dorian replied in a sigh. His hand slipped into his pocket, absently thumbing over the carved wolf. He supposed he should give it back. Would Lavellan take it? He was still sore from Redcliffe, to be sure, but such hurts would not be healed so quickly, regardless of what tokens he held. Perhaps he would keep it for a little while longer. What would be the harm?

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Lavellan laughed tiredly, bumping Dorian’s ribs with his blanket-padded elbow. “I survived, didn’t I? I should get _some_ credit, at least.”

“Of _course,_ ” Dorian ribbed, “how silly of me. Very impressive how you managed to not die while we hauled you here to be put back together. Really, you’re an absolute star. A credit to the Inquisition!"

“Ah, such sarcasm,” Lavellan said, letting out a long-suffering sigh. He leaned harder against the mage’s side, “you know, when you were doting over me, I thought maybe you would treat me with respect for once.”

“What do you mean?” Dorian scoffed, voice raising an octave with the accusation, “I treat you with respect. I use the proper title before taking the piss out of you a _generous_ fifty percent of the time.”

“Shut _up,_ Dorian,” Lavellan laughed, exhaustion leaking through his tone. Dorian laughed, too, despite himself. The elf’s lips twisted, squashing his smile into something softer that still fought to dominate his sleep-sallowed features. “I… I _am_ sorry, for what it’s worth. It shouldn’t have happened.” One of his hands wriggled out from his blankets, snatching up Dorian’s where it rested on his thigh.

“Wasn’t exactly expecting the sod to skewer himself just to land a hit on me. A bit unusual.” Lavellan’s voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. His long fingers intertwined with the other man’s, squeezing gently. Dorian's breath caught in a way he wished it hadn't, from such a small bit of contact. He'd be writing it off as another bit of casual touching the elf tended towards. Else, he was in deeper than he'd thought, and he didn't feel quite panicked enough for that to be the case, yet.

“Yes, well, people tend to bend over backwards to get your attention. As well as other, more gruesome figures of speech.” He murmured, a steadying sigh passing through his lungs in a gust. Why Lavellan felt the need to apologize was beyond him, but he would be lying if he said he didn't feel better for hearing it.

“Mm. Suppose I ought to notice them more, then. Save them the trouble.”

“Oh, naturally, the effort _should_ all be on your part.” Dorian replied, more bitter than he intended. Lavellan’s hand twitched around his own, tugging it closer to his scratchy wool exterior. The fire, the crows and Cassandra’s whetstone were the only sound in their world for a few long seconds.

“... Do you… want a knife?” Lavellan murmured, pushing down a hearty yawn. The tension ebbed from Dorian’s brow as he glanced back to the Inquisitor from where he studied the orangey sand.

“It’s free.” He continued, “a bit bloody, but you can clean it. Probably has a higher resale value long as it’s got a little piece of me, though.”

Dorian fought a weak laugh. The change of subject was abundantly clear, but Lavellan was all but draped over him and looked barely awake. He would broach the topic some other time.

“Well, I do love a bargain,” Dorian drawled, shifting to climb to his feet. Without his support, Lavellan let himself crumple in an awkward heap against the ground. In an act of true chivalry, Dorian wrestled him to his feet and helped him walk to his tent, rather than allowing him to sleep in a bundle dangerously close to the open fire. “I’ll speak with Josephine. Perhaps we can auction it for charity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian, already getting attached: sex makes you attached to ppl so i probably shouldn't


	12. The Same Song, A Different Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shorter than usual but i intend to make things even out

The (presumably brief) reprieve they’d stumbled into was _quite_ welcome, in Dorian’s opinion. He had plenty of time to sit and stew in his feelings about his meeting with his father. However, none of those periods of gloomy abstraction and very occasional gross sobbing were done with the addition of _lots of wine_. Not to mention, Skyhold had baths. _His_ bath, in fact. In _his_ new quarters. Where he could look like as much of a mess as he pleased, without having to worry about Lavellan inevitably checking in on him and making him feel alight with shame. The hurt was dull now, of course, but recuperation was still in order.

So, he spent a day in the bath, a glass of red in one hand and a smutty romance in the other. He was positively pruney when he called his R&R to a close. He dressed, finished his wine, and left his quarters to go to the tavern. More drink was in order, but more than that, he could pretend he wasn’t so alone when he drank amongst others. A cynical part of his brain corrected him; he would not be _alone,_ certainly, but it said nothing of being _lonely_. Still, _paying_ for his drinks would help to reel himself in, he thought. Not to mention, the relative silence of his chambers coupled with the warmth of his bath and the content of his reading was moving his thoughts to bad places. Impure ones, no doubt, but it was _whose_ hands and _whose_ eyes he imagined that concerned him.

His hands had slipped south on such occasions before, but it felt... odd, now. A bit of debasement was nothing new, but it was the sort of things he dreamt up that had started to grow alarming. Something debauched but meaningless was all well and good--quite run-of-the-mill, as far as lustful fantasy went--the thought of... _meaning_ something was what spurred him on now, however. Strong, capable arms put to use for something sinful but still secure. Comforting. Mesmerized by careful eyes and the feeling of fingers intertwined; soft, whispered words that were more than lewd encouragement. Compliments! When was the last time he'd ever been given a compliment that wasn't entirely perverted? Passion and heat, with the addition of something soft, gentle and caring; the sort of thing which, if ever he'd had it, was a haphazard mirage. Nowadays, butterflies accompanied the warmth coiling in his abdomen. Sometimes, his chest would squeeze with a too-soft ache and it would ruin the event for him altogether. He needed to get ahold of himself.

Lavellan was no stranger to flirtation, and certainly not a prude. If half the rumours Dorian had heard were true (which he was certain they weren’t, but regardless), the elf had a penchant for plenty of un-Heraldly activities. Drinking, dancing and bedding, to name a few. The notion wasn’t as surprising as it was entertaining; imagining the more conservative chantry disciples clutching their pearls in shock at the very idea. Still, it put Dorian on-edge. The rational part of himself argued that nothing could ever come of flirting; he had no proof that Lavellan would even choose to _be_ with him at all. Regardless, he wished, and the wishing brought paranoid fear. He both longed and dreaded to be treated with such easy affection with the intent being something further.

He'd settle for anything like the fantasies his traitor mind cooked up. That sort of sweet attention from _anyone_ would be a pleasant change he yearned for. But _Maker,_ he'd be lying if he told himself he didn't want it to be that terrible elf doing it.

The less than rational part of himself was hell-bent on ruining his good intentions of self-preservation. This was the part that put those ill-advised (and probably very blasphemous) thoughts into his mind. The part that spurred him onto the tavern, willing him to get wasted and probably do something he would come to regret later. When he entered the tavern and saw Lavellan dancing along with a drunken, ragtag rabble; hair messy and a soft flush splayed across his cheeks, it was that traitorous side of his mind that conjured up a number of unhelpfully helpful images. It was rationality that made him shake it off and press on towards the bar, allowing him to not be caught gawking in the doorway.

He ordered another glass of wine and slipped through the crowd to a faraway table. Lavellan still caught sight of him and shot him a wave of welcome, shouting over the excited rabble to come join. Again, it was rationality that kept Dorian’s feet moving towards a table, even as he considered abandoning his drink and his senses just to be near the elf.

He shot him a wave and a small shake of his head, as if to say _not right now, thank you very much,_ as if he would allow himself to join in on the dance at some later date. Lavellan’s face fell an inch, but he still gave a nod before his attention turned away. Finally able to breathe, Dorian escaped to his intended table and sunk into the rickety chair.

The drunken sing-along faded more into the background as Dorian focused on his glass of wine. He was tipsy enough to have too little control over his train of thought for his current state. Just as he was considering returning to his room, a voice startled him from his thoughts.

“Soft, bright, always alert. The colour of honey mead, equally intoxicating. Do they know what turmoil they cause?” Cole voiced, appearing in the seat across from him with his knees drawn to his chest. Dorian jolted, spilling a drop of wine and hissing out a _“sweet maker!_ ”

“They want you to see what they do. Kind hands and a heavy heart, but no less beautiful than any other. They know it hurts.” Cole continued. He angled his blank gaze towards the mage, head tilting slightly.

“What is it, Cole?” Dorian asked, trying to keep the edge from his voice as much as possible. He assuaged his nerves with a warming sip of his drink.

“So little is true. There are gaps where he should be able to build, so hurt fills them up instead. You’re the only thing he knows for sure belongs to him.” Dorian’s lips parted to speak, but he spotted Lavellan moving through the crowded spaces between tables and he snapped his jaw shut.

“There you are,” Lavellan greeted in a drawl once he came upon them, a smile lifting his cheeks. He moved to stand at the side of the table, angling his grin towards the spirit as well. “Hello, Cole. How are the people this evening?”

“The apples are bitter and they soak through the bread. Her kiss is sweet enough. _Three more weeks_ ,” Cole’s voice shifted to imitate someone else’s, “the ale isn’t sweet, but it reminds him.” Lavellan nodded sagely, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder.

“Good to hear,” he said, gleaming with optimism even in the face of the spirit’s cryptic wording, “keep up the hard work.” His eyes turned back to Dorian, who resisted the urge to cower. This was the opposite of what he needed.

“Can I join you?” He asked, “I could use a sit.”

“Of course.” Dorian replied quickly, unable to turn him down. He glanced about the tavern. Most other seats had steadily been filled or moved away. When he went to suggest something ill-advisedly flirtatious (probably along the lines of sitting on his lap; he hadn’t worked it all out yet), Lavellan cut him off by taking up the seat Cole had just disappeared from.

“I haven’t seen you all day.” Lavellan said, his expectant tone turning it into a question. Dorian took a defensive sip of his wine.

“Yes, well, I wanted some time to myself.” He answered, sounding a bit more flippant than he’d intended. Lavellan raised his hands in defense, an easy smile still on his lips.

“Right. We all need that, from time to time. How was it?” The elf leaned back in his seat with a creak that was lost in the drunken hollering of another song. A puff of a laugh escaped Dorian’s nose.

“Refreshing, though perhaps not in the ways I’d hoped.” He replied. His voice trailed off as their collective attention turned to the warrior now thumping his way over to their table. Blackwall clapped a hand on Lavellan’s uninjured shoulder, making him sway a bit.

“Didn’t think you’d come through here, what with your war wound.” Blackwall greeted, his smile apparent in his tone moreso than behind his beard.

“And leave you to drink Cabot dry all on your own? Don't even think of it.” Lavellan spat, letting out a boyish laugh. Dorian eyed the warrior up with a wary glance. Outside of travelling together in a party--which wasn’t always frequent--he and Blackwall weren’t exactly… friends. Not enemies, of course, but the man had watched Dorian make a drunken fool of himself more times than he might’ve liked. Even if he wasn’t one to spread tales about the _alcoholic Tevinter interloper,_ his view of him likely wasn’t the best. Especially sat next to Lavellan, who he seemed to look at as if the sun shone out of his arse.

“Come to think of it,” Blackwall spoke again, waggling an accusatory finger, “I’ve never seen an injured man dance as much as you, either.” Dorian had missed some part of the conversation, but it didn’t really matter. He was busy watching the way Lavellan chittered back. It was the same toothy grin, bright eyes and snarky retorts. But it felt _different_ from when he and Dorian were alone. His smile was more lopsided, his voice dipped lower, and his laugh was more boyish. It fit, he supposed, that Lavellan would talk to Blackwall (and, presumably, other warriors) more like a rowdy sibling than a comrade. It made him consider their friendship in a foolish way that he regretted as soon as he began. Lavellan confided in him when he could do so with no-one else; there was no doubt to be had.

“I didn’t even _know_ I knew the Antivan Six-Step so well,” Lavellan said, chittering back about something or other, “I suppose there are some things you never quite forget.” Blackwall’s response was lost with the question at the forefront of Dorian’s mind. _Had_ Lavellan started to tell others about his memories? If not… why?

“Yeah, you would know _all_ about finesse, I’m sure.” Lavellan drawled, leaning one arm over the back of his seat. Blackwall waved him off and stalked away, leaving the two of them alone at the table once more. Dorian was growing increasingly aware that he’d hardly uttered a word with the other man around.

“...Busy in here tonight,” he murmured, a poor attempt at covering up his lack of socializing. What had he come here for, again? To distract himself from the man sitting right across from him, taking up all his attention? He swallowed down the rest of his wine. He considered admitting defeat and passing out in his chambers.

“We can dance now, if you’re interested.” Lavellan suggested, right back to the softer smile Dorian was used to. Had he missed the change?

“No, thank you,” he found himself saying. He stood carefully from his chair, likely thinking too much about how he looked for a tipsy fool, “some other time. I think I’ll be turning in for the night.”

“Awh, so soon?” Lavellan lamented, though he made no move to keep him. “Just know that you owe me a dance, yeah?”

 _“Alright,”_ Dorian said, “if you insist.” Still, a smile crossed his lips. Lavellan shot him a short wave as he left. The sun had started to set in the brief interlude he’d spent in the Herald’s Rest, the cool air working as a balm for his troubled mind. A night’s sleep in a proper bed would do him good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're ready for things to go off the Fucking Rails soon.


	13. A Friend Redefined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not the chapter where things go off the Fucking Rails. Just enjoy something nice and sweet for now, more HD pining coming your way soon. :)

Tromping through the Graves wasn’t always a favourite pastime, but the weather was fair and the sunlight shone down through the converging canopies to cast dappled shapes along the uneven ground. It was the perfect picture of nature: serene, open and free, all echoes of screaming and carnage faraway for the moment. Lavellan only had to focus his hearing a tiny bit to hear _someone_ being murdered. But the wind that wailed through the branches helped to tune it out.

That, and the gentle sounds of the camp around him. Cassandra was stirring something over the fire; the only hint as to its identity the distinctly earthy smell it gave off and the dull scraping of the ladle against the bottom of the pot. Soup, probably. Cassandra was a woman of many talents, but gourmet cooking wasn’t one of them. Whatever she was putting together for their midday lunch would, firstly, be liquid. Secondly, have chunks of varying sizes and doneness. Thirdly, elicit a displeased look from Dorian before he badgered Lavellan for _something_ to make it taste like food. He was almost starting to regret letting the mage in on his secret spices he kept stowed away in his jacket. Salt, namely. Dorian wasn’t exactly an _understated_ person, and that carried over into how much salt he poured into whatever tasteless mash he was being called to eat, given the chance.

A low snore startled Lavellan from his idle task. His fingers paused their ministrations, in the midst of tying a loose knot from a number of grassy flower stems. Bull shifted against the root, upon which Lavellan and Dorian both sat, and let out a louder snore. Lavellan spared a glance over his shoulder, where Dorian was tucked up higher against the base of the tree. The sound had drawn the mage’s attention from his book, as well, but it was quickly captured by Lavellan tapping his shin with his free hand. The elf then made a gesture to keep quiet, shifting to sit on his haunches.

He finished his final knot and slid the number of loops onto his arm. He shifted back, taking one into his hand. He held it between his thumb and first two fingers, tracing its trajectory carefully. Then, a cheeky smile lighting up his face, he flung the hoop of flowers out in a spiral, landing it perfectly on one of Bull’s horns. He took a moment to silently celebrate, then looked back at Dorian with a toothy grin. The look he received was a mix of delight and confusion.

Lavellan spared a glance towards the Seeker, who hadn’t yet noticed his childish game. Eyes lingering on her, he slipped another flowery loop off his arm and tossed it the same way. It was a near miss, but the loop spiraled its way down the same horn to land atop the other. Lavellan did another excited, silent dance. The two men dissolved into a harshly-suppressed bout of laughter.

Lavellan adjusted his position and tossed another loop, attempting to land it on the other horn. Just as it left his hand, he looked up to see Cassandra watching, having heard the quiet giggles. From the meager distance, he couldn’t quite tell if the knot in her brow was amusement or disappointment. He froze, looking rather like a child awaiting discipline. Still, when he noticed the ring had made its mark, he celebrated. Cassandra shook her head, but still turned back to the fire as if she’d seen nothing at all.

No longer under the Seeker’s penetrative gaze, he tossed another loop. It missed, bouncing off Bull’s head and rolling onto the ground. The qunari stirred and Lavellan froze once more, ready to hide the flowers at a moment’s notice. But Bull only shifted. His snores restarted once more, now softer than they had been. Lavellan sat back, sparing a glance towards Dorian. Silently, he offered a loop to him. Dorian had to move his book off his lap and sit up carefully to reach for it. Face fixed in concentration, he tossed the loop, trying to match Lavellan’s previous stance. It barely missed the qunari’s horn, but Dorian barely had time to regret his failure before Lavellan was handing him another one.

Bull awoke with a sneeze some four rings later. Lavellan had climbed off the thick root to retrieve the missed tries sometime in that period, interchanging throws with the mage until each flowery loop was stacked up on one of the qunari’s horns. As soon as he stirred to wakefulness, both men worked to play things off. Dorian scrambled back against the tree and cracked his book back open. Lavellan rolled into a casual lounging position along the root, pretending to pick out the dirt from under his nails and do his best to keep his watching inconspicuous.

Bull climbed to his feet with a grunt. He paused, apparently sensing the foreign weight on his head. He worked one of the loops off his horn and inspected it blearily. Letting out a scoff, he turned, tossing it towards Lavellan, who fell out of his fake lounging to try and catch it. A grin was already on his face, placing the loop of flowers onto his own head as Bull bent over to let the rest of them tumble off on their own.

“Hey, come on, I worked hard on those!” Lavellan chastised, breaking the silence, though his laughter ruined any chance at earning pity. Bull put his hands up, playing along, and plucked them off the ground. Taking a few in one hand, he threw them hard in the Inquisitor’s direction. They were like tactical flower necklaces, bouncing off the elf and whipping him in the areas he couldn’t shield.

Lavellan let out a wail at the onslaught, arms up to protect his face. One last loop bounced off his leg, signalling the end of enemy fire. By the time he lowered his arms, Bull’s back was turned. He went about chatting with Cassandra and stealing a taste of lunch, leaving the Inquisitor terribly wounded and smiling brightly.

-

The party was wandering the steep, awkward path away from one of the many abandoned villas when Lavellan seemed to snap to attention. He was in the middle of the party, between Cassandra taking point and Dorian closer to the flank. He glanced around, looking puzzled, and called the party to a halt.

“Inquisitor, what…?” Cassandra started. Lavellan wriggled past her in the narrow pathway, taking up a weak jog as he followed the sound that had caught his attention. It was a dog. Not a wolf, but a _dog_. Barking, but not threateningly. He pushed through the foliage, the sound of the party a number of strides behind.

His target came to him, as it turned out. A hound--though not a mabari, as he’d grown accustomed to encountering--with a thick, furry coat and wolf-like features. But it was smaller, and had a lighter colour and was running up to Lavellan to give kisses rather than bites. He barely let out a delighted gasp before he was cooing over the dog, allowing it to lay slobbering kisses over his neck and face.

“He- _llo!_ ” He cooed, running his fingers through the dog’s thick fur. “Aren’t you _darling?_ ” Her coat was coarse, but still clean, and overall the dog looked well-groomed. Not unusual, for such a rare breed to be treated as a luxury.

“Where did you come from, my dear?” Lavellan asked, slipping his fingers under the flat leather collar around the dog’s neck. There were a few metal loops hanging off it, but nothing else.

“We’ll have to tell Varric about this,” Dorian piped up. He, and the rest of the party, stood a few paces away. Cassandra separated herself from them to crouch at the Inquisitor’s side, scrubbing a hand through the dog’s fur. “That you have the uncanny ability to sense ruined notes, half-empty bottles of swill and _pets_.”

“I think you’re just jealous,” Lavellan accused, giving the dog a hearty scratch behind the ear as he rose to his feet. “Those sound like the abilities of a seasoned warrior to me.” He shot the mage an indignant look.

“We should find this dog’s owner,” Cassandra spoke up, also standing. Obediently, the hound dropped to a sit, tongue lolling out with her panting. “Not many people could afford to take care of such a rare breed. I’m sure she’s well-missed.”

“She hasn’t got a name.” Lavellan added, lips pulled into a frown. The dog stood, then, and padded towards the other half of the party. She gave Dorian a few sniffs, but didn’t find him to be of much interest. She moved onto Bull, who allowed her to kick up her front paws onto his knee so he could give her a rowdy petting.

“Easily remedied,” Dorian replied, looking no worse for wear for having been ignored. He leaned onto his staff, watching the dog lick at Bull’s hand when he tried to scratch behind her ear. “We’ll come up with something.”

“Dog.” Cassandra suggested, her tone dry.

 _“Nah,”_ Bull insisted, using both his giant hands to bury into her fur. “She looks like a warrior to me. She needs a _good_ name; something to strike fear into the hearts of men.”

 _"Ooh,_ Danger Dog.” Lavellan suggested, looking between Cassandra and Dorian for their opinions. Cassandra only let out a sigh.

“Regardless of what we call her,” she said, the intent of her words already coming across in her stern inflection, “we should keep moving. Perhaps we will come across the owner while we travel.”

“We should check the buildings in the area. If her owner’s a piece of shit, then hey, free dog.” Lavellan suggested, raising two thumbs up.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Cassandra warned, “things rarely work out so smoothly.” The party picked up, ready to scour the area for a possible dog owner. Just another thing to add to their list of menial tasks.

“No, but I can hope, can’t I?” Lavellan sighed in reply.


	14. Wolf Totem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do U Ever Just

If Dorian was a more reasonable man, he might’ve already been asleep. He would’ve been tucked into his bedroll under the starry sky, dreaming of sugarplums, or whatever people tended to dream about when they didn’t have something better to be taunted by. Instead, he forced his eyes to move over each new line of his reading--something or other about Antivan history, he wasn’t actually paying attention anymore--rather than focusing on the elf across the fire from him. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it in recent weeks, but it _was_ the first time he had to do it for a reason other than the concern of being caught making eyes at him. He’d still not addressed those feelings, and now he was beginning to feel more and more like a madman pleading sanity. This was _not_ helping.

Never in his life would he have considered he would be jealous of a _dog!_ Why would he? Evidently, this was the sort of world where _he_ couldn’t face the truth, and thus was reduced to frowning leerily as Lavellan rested next to the fire with the hound lain across his chest. It was a stupid and childish thing to do but that hadn’t stopped him from doing much of _anything_ as of late. Lavellan had been the subject of plenty of his exceptions, these days. He pranced across the carefully-drawn lines Dorian made in the sand, perfectly oblivious.

At this point, he was starting to get careless. Maybe if Lavellan caught a few of his longing looks, he’d address things. Dorian could give up the game and things would be resolved, for better or for worse. Of course, _for worse_ would mean running the risk of being turned down, and he wasn’t quite finished with the fantasy of _not that_ just yet. His pining hadn’t grown to the point of physical pain, so he could hold out a while longer, right?

 _Soon,_ he told himself. _Before it isn’t just a dog_. But, then, if it wasn’t? If Lavellan found a proper _someone_ and Dorian was left feeling like a fool? What right would he even have to feel jealous? All these thoughts and so few places to put them left him feeling dizzy, and not in the fun too-much-wine way. He set aside his book, though it turned into more of a toss, and he clasped his hands huffily over his midsection.

This was all Lavellan’s fault. Stupid, charming, easy-to-talk-to Lavellan. He could’ve _just_ been decent to him, or perhaps a bit more dull. Or, he could have been beautiful but _terrible_ , and that would’ve done just as well. But _no_. He had to have it both ways; the kindness of his title with none of the religious stuffiness or restriction. Warm eyes, easy smile and a body made just to tempt blasphemers like him. His fool heart wasn’t built for this sort of crisis.

It was Lavellan’s fault that he still kept a tight hold on the wolf carving in his pocket, less for comfort and more as a reminder; pretending it meant more than it did. It was Lavellan’s fault that he’d been sighing wistfully every other _minute,_ like some sort of lovesick fool, only to realize each time that Lavellan didn’t even know what part he was playing in his internal crisis. It was Lavellan’s fault without ever knowing it at all. But knowing Lavellan, he would find out and give Dorian a soft smile and a pat on the arm and Dorian--the fool he was--would beg him for more things to be troubled over.

At this point, he wasn’t sure what he was more afraid of. Was it admitting to himself and to Lavellan what he was feeling, being denied, and going through the subsequent heartbreak? Or was it admitting to his turmoil and being accepted, wholeheartedly, as he knew Lavellan could? Doomed to a life of thinking _just one more mistake_ and he would be out the door like so much rubbish. Perhaps it was the unknown he feared, even more than the others. Gambling that which was the most precious, not knowing where the cards would fall.

But then, couldn't he offer himself up? Even if things didn't go the way he'd daydreamed, it wasn't as if a bit of attention would be _bad._ Perhaps it would sate his craving, somehow. He knew, on some level, that it wouldn't work; touching and teasing only made him crave more, and _that's_ where the trouble lay. He'd never _have_ more, and entertaining it was so tantalizingly foolish. But _Maker,_ he'd give anything to get close to it.

It wasn't like Lavellan would let him forget it, either. He'd put a hand on his arm, or tug him by his wrist, or give him that lopsided smile he'd grown so fond of seeing sprout. Dorian was sure it was almost entirely his own fabrication, at this point, when the touched lingered more than he remembered. When a hand on his arm would squeeze, but only for a moment. And _kaffas,_ that smile. He sought it out, more often than not, for a feeling like approval. He'd search for any sort of witty retort to make Lavellan's face light up in that grin, just to fool himself for a fleeting moment that he could be liked beyond being a friend or an ally. They would flirt, sometimes, and it was jarring how carelessly Lavellan would talk in front of others. Dorian would rise to the challenge, of course, but it felt a bit more like desperate bluster on his part.

All in all, it was making him realize just how badly he needed to get laid.

He turned in his bedroll, lips pulled into a bitter frown. It was unfair; being affected so easily by things so meaningless, while Lavellan seemed no worse for wear. The notion was equal parts cruel and hilarious; as if he would get some sort of sick satisfaction out of seeing the elf trouble over him in the alternative. _No_ , he told himself, _I wouldn’t wish that on him_ , and perhaps that was the root of his heartache. He had no quarrel with being selfish over anything--anyone--else. So why now? Why him? Maker, _why him?_

-

 _“Tara!”_ The distant, childish call heralded the end of Lavellan’s glowing, dog-induced cheer. Small feet bounded down a rough-cut dirt path, kicking up pads of dust and little pebbles with each quick stride. The dog perked up, barking and picking up speed to a swift gallop over the grass, dragging Lavellan along with. Dog and child met in a flurry of giggles and slobbering kisses. The girl who had come to meet the hound pulled away from her with a gasp, setting upon the Inquisitor with a warm embrace.

“Thank you so, so, _so_ much,” she gushed, squeezing Lavellan around the midsection. He put his arms up, visibly surprised, though he made no move to push her away. “Tara’s been missing for _days_. I thought for sure she would get into trouble out there, but father wouldn’t let me look.” The girl pulled away, looking up at Lavellan with the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Right. All in a day’s work.” He replied evenly, keeping the disappointment from his tone. Cassandra had been more correct than he wanted to give her credit for. He still held tight to the makeshift leash in his hand as the party caught up to him. The girl bent down to give the dog another affectionate peppering of kisses and pets. Begrudgingly, with lips pulled into a childish half-frown, Lavellan offered her the leash.

“Tara’s a good dog. You’re lucky to have her.” He sighed out. She took the leash from his hand, brows lifting along with her soft smile.

“A dog's the best friend you could ask for,” the girl replied, smiling toothily in return, “don’t tell father, but _I_ think you should come by to visit her sometime.”

“Wh--really?” Lavellan sputtered, trying not to sound too delighted at the prospect of coming to see the good-natured hound once more.

 _“Inquisitor,”_ Cassandra warned, folding her arms over her chest.

“We… have lots of things to do. But if you or Tara ever need help, we’ll come by, alright?” Lavellan suggested, flashing an easier smile. The girl gave a quick nod, lips parting to reply before a distant call caught her attention. Her father, probably. It was disembodied, originating from within the secluded cottage whose yard she had originally been loitering in. Both of them glanced back towards the home, then at one another.

“We’ll take our leave. Have a lovely day. Tara,” Lavellan bode, giving a polite nod and a final smile.

The quaint semi-silence of the forest that followed their leave was… strange, at first. Lavellan was gloomy, in that temporary way he always seemed to be when something didn’t go his way.

“We should get a dog.” Iron Bull suggested. The rest of the party bit back a sigh, some more effectively than others. “I’m serious! It would be fun.”

 _“Fun_ is not typically the basis we make decisions upon.” Cassandra replied. Just like that, a banter was established, and white noise began. As the brief pause gave way to a more long winded wander, Dorian slipped a hand into his pocket. The familiar shape of the wolf carving drew his lips into a frown.

They stopped at an Inquisition camp just before sundown, ready to settle in for the night. As soon as Iron Bull wasn’t putting himself in between himself and the Inquisitor, Dorian went to seek out the elf. It wasn’t a hard search. He’d sequestered himself to the edge of camp, looking out at the distant sky through the trees with a uniquely gloomy disposition.

“I didn’t realize you happened to like animals so much.” Dorian said, making his presence known as he sidled up beside him. Lavellan had his arms crossed over his chest, not moving to glance over at him as he appeared. "You look positively bereaved."

“Mm. They make me feel…” Lavellan trailed off, lips pulling into a pensive pout. “... Good. Like, they make me feel like a good person.”

“There’s not much to that, I’m sure.” Dorian’s thumbs traced the ears of the wooden wolf with the pad of his thumb. Lavellan let out a humourless laugh, half disbelieving and half tired. Dorian would have to work together a sternly-worded lecture about that. Some other time, perhaps.

“... I don’t have a live hound, but perhaps this will help you stop sulking,” Dorian said.

“Dorian, if this is some sort of half-rotten dog--” Lavellan started, rearing up to deny whatever macabre gift he was expecting from the mage. Dorian let out an offended-sounding scoff, slipping the carving from his pocket and holding it out. Lavellan glanced down, brows perking up in question.

“As _if_ I would go through the trouble,” He tittered, though he absolutely would have, had he the time, opportunity, or thought it would’ve gone over well, “Figured I ought to give it back before I grew too attached.”

It was, perhaps, too true for how flippantly he said it. Lavellan’s hand closed around the carving, catching his fingers without reservation.

“Thank you.” Lavellan murmured, a small, quaint smile on his lips. Swallowing hard, Dorian slipped his fingers from his grip and back into his pocket.

“Don’t sound too thankful. It is _yours_ , after all.” He chastised, unable to make the elf’s smile waver even an inch. Rather, it only seemed to grow fonder as he continued to study the figure as if it was the first time. Dorian looked away, startled by the tenderness in his gaze even without it being directed towards him specifically. He was even more startled by the arm that wrapped around his midsection, pulling him into a warm embrace. _Maker,_ he prayed, angling his eyes up to the darkening sky, both his hands settling gently on Lavellan’s back. Could he hear the thrumming of his heart from where he leaned his chin onto his shoulder? _Maker, don’t let me ruin this._


	15. The Same Song, Sung Softly and in Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some zappies, some throw-uping. All 100% Walking Dead

Lavellan had been noticing _plenty_ lately. More than usual, probably. Like how the bog water squished in his boots with every step. Or how much he missed the sun. Actually--no, he didn’t just miss it. He mourned it-- _bereaved--_ the sun, and any feeling like _warmth_ that didn’t come without some form of dampness. The Mire had all but ruined his leathers and the idea of rain for the foreseeable future. Despite it all, there were bigger, more distracting things he’d been noticing. Dorian, mostly.

He had a great appreciation for the man to begin with; what wasn’t there to like? But there were little things. Noticing the way the mage glanced away whenever he himself looked towards him, as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. Or the way he shifted his staff between his hands when they were idle. Or how quickly he agreed to come to the Mire, saying something along the lines of _how bad could it be? It’s only a corpse-infested bog._ Lavellan couldn’t quite recall the specifics; he had been too busy noticing the perk to his lips when he’d said it.

All these new things to consider had come on quickly. Alarmingly so, perhaps, considering it had originated from a regifted bauble. Well, perhaps not _entirely_ originated from it, but it had made him _aware_ of a few things. Like just how much Dorian’s presence put him at ease, or how pleasant he could make things. Like a bog. Or the squelching water in his boots. Or the fact that he could hardly recall the feeling of the sun on his face. A swamp full of undead, or a slippery, muddy goose chase to find a missing patrol--it didn’t matter. He could have done with a bit more sun, sure, but the company made it bearable, if not enjoyable.

At the end of their meandering path, which had been smattered by hostile Avvar and half-rotten warriors, was a stronghold. If the half-mile radius of the place hadn’t been a swaddling of shambling dead, Lavellan might’ve let out a sigh of relief. No matter how many topical jokes Varric could work up, there wasn’t anything funny enough to take the edge off the sheer _holy shit_ of the long path of dead set out before them. Lavellan leaned his blade over his shoulder and got to walking, face set firm from a mix of grim determination and pure spite for the world set out for him to save. Or cut through, in any case.

-

The Avvar had been dealt with, but the undead surrounding the fortress seemed to be unending. They squished themselves through any crack they could find, shambling along over the muddy ground in a long-winded charge upon the small party. The fight with the Avvar had used up a number of their potions. Escaping would be dicey. As long as they could outpace the leagues of undead, they would be able to break through to the Inquisition camp. But as they left the inner sanctum of the fortress, that was appearing more and more unlikely. The dead clustered together to move in hobbling waves. Whether by noise or scent, the dead were honed in on them.

“Things can never just _work_ , can they?” Lavellan sighed, unsheathing his sword. The undead climbed up the sides of the stairs to the landing where they stood. Thankfully, it only made it easier for Varric to pick them off before they drew in too close. Cassandra bashed a few of the shambling corpses from the edges of the clustered party with her shield.

“What’s our plan, Inquisitor?” She asked, urgency seeping into her tone. Varric took down a handful of undead scaling the stairs with a small trap. Lavellan eyed the approaching crowds. If they could just cut a path, keep them from advancing for a few moments…

“Don’t die.” He replied, terse with nerves. He took point, allowing a corpse to approach him before knocking it down the stairs and into the others below. He swung his sword in broad slashes, clearing a slowly-disappearing path forward. Cassandra guarded one side and Dorian the other. The stiff crackling of barriers cast a bluish sheen over them as they waded through the crowds.

“We won’t make it all the way out like this, Boots,” Varric warned, “I’m running out of bolts!” He shot another round into a corpse drawing too close to their flank. He dropped a set of caltrops in their wake to trip them up.

“Just don’t fall behind!” Lavellan replied grimly. He said a small prayer under his breath. _Maker,_ he murmured, tracing a rune into the mud with the tip of his boot, _don’t let me die here._ The rune flared to life underfoot, increasing their barriers for the time being. He started to notice his own ragged breathing. The thrumming of his heart in his ears.

The realization that he might very well die here hit him suddenly. Still, it didn’t feel true. It felt so much less dangerous than Haven. He continued to cut down undead at the front of their cluster, taking a few hits as a small payment. A static crackling ran down the length of his blade, discharging into his next target. The small bout of electricity jumped between undead before fizzling out.

That was new.

He could feel his magic building in his fingertips, pulsing with every heartbeat. It started to lash out more, sending jolts of electricity through his sword and into the ground where his feet were planted. His hair started to stand on-end. His magic had never been so out of control before. Swirling clouds gathered above. Move. He had to move.

“Dorian, put up barriers!” He ordered, pushing his way out of their cluster. He swung wildly, weed-whacking his way through another grouping of undead.

“What do you mean? What’re you going to do?” Someone, probably Dorian, called after him. He was nearly ten paces from them now. His barrier rune would hold the dead off from the party, but he didn’t know what sort of damage his magic could do. Looking back, the party appeared to be varying degrees of frazzled, worried and terrified.

“Barriers, _pretty please,_ Lord Pavus!” He shouted, punctuating each word with another swing of his sword. He hadn’t meant to be so forceful, but the sound of a spell being cast told him all he needed to know.

It was just in time, evidently. The swirling black clouds had been glowing with strikes of sheet lightning every few seconds. Then, half out of instinct, half in some kind of trance, he raised his sword towards the sky. He acted as a lightning rod, a stiff crack arcing from the clouds above to strike the tip of his blade. The lightning flickered on and off, hopping from his sword to the undead around them. The ring of protection on his free hand seemed to sear into his skin as it worked overtime to keep the lightning from overclocking his heart and cooking him to a crisp. The heat and the pure energy of the lightning filled him up, burning across his skin. Then, just before he felt he would burst, he turned his sword down and pierced the earth at his feet. There was a blinding white light as the electricity discharged all at once.

When the world turned dark once more, his fingers were still wound tight around the hilt of his sword. The swirling clouds had dissipated, leaving only the usual bleary overcast. Looking around with drooping eyes, only very distant undead were threatening to approach. In the place of all the others were only vague shadows. He found he was leaning heavily onto his sword, half-kneeling in the mud. His breaths came in ragged for a few moments before the pain started. It was sharp, like a hundred pins and needles moving across his skin.

The sound of barriers fizzling out brought him back. He pushed on his hilt to stand, working the blade further into the mud. The pins and needles feeling only grew, chased by a cold sweat and chills that wracked his weakened body. He couldn't help his shaking.

“Well,” he rasped, “that’s new, eh?” His hand wobbled where he still leaned onto his sword. Just as Cassandra gave a relieved gasp of _Inquisitor,_ he was collapsing at the foot of his blade.

-

An unusual wetness on his forehead brought him back to life with a start. Eyes wide, he jolted to sit up. They burned in the sudden presence of light and he let out a hiss, snapping them shut once more. The pins and needles were faded, but still definitely there. They huddled in his fingertips and the very ends of his toes, as if he’d been sopping with the sensation and they ran down during his forced nap.

“Hey, you made it,” Varric’s familiar voice drawled from close by, “Sparkler owes me _two_ royals.” Even with his eyes squeezed shut, Lavellan already knew the exact smile on his face. His regular I’m-relieved-but-hiding-it-behind-being-facetious sort of expression. Tentatively, he opened his eyes one by one. The once blinding light was now an easier orange-yellow glow. He sat up, head spinning. The dizziness turned to nausea not long after.

“Inquisitor, are you alright?” Cassandra’s Nevarran lilt came from a short ways away. Soon enough, the silhouette of her legs was blocking some of that orange-yellow firelight. Instead of answering, Lavellan stumbled to his feet and away from the bedroll they'd parked him in favour of heaving into the foliage not far. He emptied his already unfilled stomach, one hand on a tree for support and the other on his stomach as he defaced the shrubberies.

The Seeker’s footsteps paused as he ran. They were replaced by another pair as Varric came to offer his waterskin and a pitying smile. Standing fully, Lavellan leaned against the tree, using his free hand to wipe at his mouth. He gave a shaky murmur of thanks before pouring a bit of the lukewarm water into his mouth to swish and spit into the underbrush. Handing the skin back over to the dwarf beside him, he let out a groan, head thumping back against the tree. It sent little shockwaves of pain through his skull.

“You alright, Boots?” Varric asked, his voice low. Lavellan nodded mutely, forearm pausing over his mouth as he took a few shaky breaths. His head ached dully with the movement.

“Just… not used to getting struck by lightning.” He replied, voice hoarse. He turned to walk slowly back to his bedroll, doing his best to not stumble. Still, Varric kept to his side to provide any needed support.

“Right. Well, if it makes you feel any better, you did a _great_ job getting struck by lightning. By far one of the best _I’ve_ ever seen.” Varric mused. Lavellan managed a tired laugh and little more. Cassandra came to kneel at his bedroll with a bowl of nondescript soup in her hands and a frown with more worry than her usual. He gave Cassandra a word of thanks and took a hearty sip. It tasted, peculiarly, of dirt and vegetables. Better than bile, anyway.

“You’re a talented woman, Cassandra,” he rasped, feeling his strength return, bit by tingly bit, “your food tastes the same regardless of what you put in or how you cook it. It defies reason. You’re fascinating.” The snark forced a sigh of relief from her chest.

“Take it up with my supervisor.” She replied, climbing to her feet. A shifting nearby preceded Dorian’s approach, just after Cassandra returned to the fire. His hair was messed and he only looked half-awake, but he was coming to join the meeting nonetheless.

“Bloody bastard, you are.” Was his greeting, half-stuffy from sleep. He rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm as he crouched at the Inquisitor’s side. Lavellan held his bowl in one hand, leaving his other to grab Dorian’s shoulder and give him a rowdy shake.

“Awh, I don’t know, I think I did well for myself. Didn’t get turned into a lovely red mist.” Lavellan cut himself off with a drink of the off-brown liquid. Dorian’s lips warped into a sleepy scowl.

“You need to raise your standards.” He scoffed, batting away his hand.

“Oh, probably,” Lavellan drawled, “I need to apologize, too. Was a bit rude to you, in the moment.” That woke him up. Dorian’s face shifted to the very _definition_ of incredulous.

“What? Apology not accepted. You just came back from near-death--for the _second_ time since I’ve met you, I might add--and I’ll not have you put my feelings before yours.” Dorian puffed, brows knitting tightly together.

“How gallant of you,” Lavellan replied, looking unconvinced, “but I’m apologizing regardless.” He cut himself off when his stomach turned once more, though nothing came of it. He swallowed down another good helping of his dirt-soup to squash the feeling.

“How do you feel?” Dorian asked, more tentative this time.

“Like I’ve got the worst hangover in the world,” Lavellan sighed, taking another drink, “but I’ll get through it. Could just be I’ve got low mana.”

“I’ll give you a lyrium potion, if that’s the case…?” Dorian half-suggested, half-stated, already rising to his feet. Lavellan caught his arm to stop him.

“Don’t mean to offend,” Lavellan started, clearly rearing up to say something at least a _little_ offensive, “but I would rather spill my guts a few more times than have to drink that.” Dorian let out an incredulous sound.

“It’s no trouble, really. Why not give it a try?”

“Well, it’s just--”

“If you don’t take a potion to help it, you’ll be getting no sympathy from me.” Dorian warned, though they both knew it wasn’t entirely true. A modicum of truth, at least.

“It tastes _bad,_ alright?” Lavellan snipped, half whiny. “No point in drinking it to feel better when the taste is fit to make me toss it back up.”

“Are you serious?” Dorian sighed, “you’ll try bog wine, but you won’t drink a lyrium potion?”

“That’s _different_ _,_ ” he replied, “I don’t know if I like the bog wine before I try it. That’s the whole point of _giving it a try_. I _know_ I don’t like lyrium potions.”

“They don’t even taste like much of anything!” Dorian insisted, voice raising an octave as the pointless argument carried on. A part of him was happy, at least, that Lavellan was at a good enough point to squabble back and forth.

“Not to _you,_ maybe.” Lavellan drained his bowl and set it down to cross his arms huffily over his chest. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips despite it. Dorian gave him a weak, childish push, earning an offended-sounding _oy_ before Lavellan’s attention turned elsewhere.

“Varric!” He called, now much less raspy, though still not at his usual level. “How’s-about a game of Wicked Grace?” The dwarf turned from his ministrations at the fire, already slipping a pack of cards from within his jacket.

“What’a’ya think, lethallin? You up for a game?” Lavellan asked, giving Dorian an offhand pat with the back of his knuckles.

 _“Oh,_ alright,” Dorian sighed, putting in a great deal of effort to make it sound like there was any deliberation to be had, “I suppose I can let you win a few games. If _only_ because my coinpurse is far too heavy. Really, it's a struggle.”

“Ah, that’s the spirit! Good man.” Lavellan tittered, calling out to Cassandra as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothin quite like monetary gain to settle your stomach, am I right?  
> Long-ass chapter coming up next. You better get frickin pumped. Shit's gonna go down


	16. Lavellan, Unworked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of horrible romantics, i stg

What exactly _was_ Mother Giselle’s role with the Inquisition? Most likely, Dorian supposed, she helped to make Chantry connections. It was a wonder, then, how she could be _so_ helpful to the Inquisition--doing whatever it was she was there for--when she also seemed to spend an extensive amount of her time coming up with ways to bury her nose in his business. _A very talented woman,_ he thought, eyes already glazing over with her long-winded lecture. _To be such an accomplished meddler while saying the chant at the same time._ Really, it was a wonder how she got _anything_ done.

He tuned back into her meandering lecture when it came to the subject of Lavellan. That’s when it all started coming together. Not only did she not trust him, for any number of the half-assed reasons and baseless rumours she’d heard, but she wished to keep the Inquisition _safe_. He almost wanted to laugh in her face. She wanted him to play the villain, it seemed. He already _was_ , he supposed, in her mind; always being _chatty_ with the Inquisitor, sharing his unneeded opinions and filling his mind with rhetoric. It wasn't exactly an unpopular opinion.

It seemed that being cooped up in Skyhold all day was starting to get to Mother Giselle's head; making her forget who it was they were meant to be fighting. Perhaps it would do them some good to send her out with a stave and some gleaming chantry armor; allow her to hunt down Venatori and spread spurious rumour along the way. Really, she would be a credit to the Inquisition. She would open her mouth and the Venatori would slit their own throats just to get away.

Dorian was well-equipped enough with snippy retorts to find one suitable for every question without totally losing his will to live, at least. If he was meant to be a Tevinter spy, or some such nonsense, she wouldn’t have believed anything he told her, anyway. So he gave tongue-and-cheek remarks and tried not to think about how her questions raised doubts of his own.

“Don’t think you can hide what you _are_ from me.” She warned. He pressed his lips into a tight smile and leaned against one of the balcony columns.

“Oh, I would _never,_ ” he drawled, “necromancy is such a rare gift in the south. I would be remiss to not tell everyone I met.”

“That’s not what I meant and you _know_ it.” She hissed. The tension ebbed quickly from her brow with the sound of approaching footsteps. She hid away the nasty scowl as soon as Lavellan appeared. He stood at Dorian’s side, ready to fix everything at a moment’s notice, as always.

“Such camaraderie, you two.” Lavellan greeted stiffly, looking between them. "Could hear you from downstairs." Mother Giselle gave a bow.

“Your worship, this isn’t how it looks.” She said lamely. Dorian barely bit back a laugh. Lavellan placed his hands on his hips, putting on his stern _Inquisitor_ face. “This man--his presence at your side. The rumours alone--”

“Rumours?” Lavellan drawled, tight purse warping to a cheeky smile, “I want to hear these rumours. I love rumours. Good fun.”

“It… is not for me to say.” Mother Giselle replied, her words carefully chosen.

“What a tease! You’re going to accost my friend for these _rumours_ and then not explain why you're in the right for doing it?” Lavellan replied, voice raising an octave with his insistence. It was his invariably ribbing tone, but there was something sharper to it. More impatient.

“Your Worship, the people do not know _your friend_ and neither do I. Perhaps you would not care about the rumours people spread, but someone must. You underestimate the effect this man has on the people’s good opinion.” She stressed, hands clasped tight together. Her nail beds were pressed white with tension.

“Then I will find someone _else_ to handle my apparently very brittle reputation.” Lavellan replied, “thank you, Revered Mother.” Her lips parted to reply, but she closed them for favour of bowing once more and taking her leave. Her absence left the two men with only the calling of the birds above.

“Well. That was… something.” Dorian said, watching the white and red robes disappear through a door near the other side of the overlook.

“She’s really got an interest in you,” Lavellan hummed, the sharp quality fading from his tone, “perhaps she’s trying to court you and just… has odd customs.” Dorian turned to face him, his expression a wince.

“I think it was who _I_ would court that had her holy knickers in a twist.” He replied, unable or unwilling to make a joke of it. Lavellan’s brows furrowed.

“What, you think…?” He started.

“I don’t think it’s the _idea_ of it that bothers her so much as the fact that it means _you_ are a possibility. I’m sure you’ve heard _those_ rumours.” Dorian folded his arms over his chest, shutting out the nagging anxiety at the back of his mind. _He_ wasn’t the one to start the rumours, but he couldn’t help feeling responsible, in some warped way. It was so boyish of him; prepared for a lecture over something he knew he couldn't control.

“From the barracks, yeah. The Sisters seem a bit more reserved when it comes to those, which is really saying something.” Lavellan sighed out, “do they bother you? I’m sure Leliana or Josephine could find _some_ way to make them stop.”

“No,” Dorian replied, a bit too quickly for his own tastes, “but do they bother you? You’re more of the wounded party, after all.” Lavellan let out a laugh he wasn’t expecting.

“Wounded? No. People have and _will_ say worse about me for being an elf or for the decisions I make. If anything, this is complimentary.” He gave Dorian a pat on the shoulder. “Do let me know if she gives you any more trouble.” Dorian nodded, pressing his lips into a smile and biting back his reply. His chest was fluttering too much to let him say anything that he wouldn’t regret. Lavellan passed on to the third level, Dorian watching his back for what would probably be considered _too_ long. He meandered back to his reading chair to mull over the conversation.

-

Lightning cast Dorian’s chambers in a brighter light for a moment. A few seconds later, crackling thunder seemed to shake the castle to its bones. Unperturbed, Dorian took a drink of his wine. The rain came down in sheets upon his roof. He’d had to keep an ear open for any unwanted dripping; the roofs had been finished only a few weeks prior, but it seemed like everything in Skyhold had a habit of breaking when it was least convenient. Another quick flash of lightning lit up his room. A knock at his door came just before the thunder to match it.

Slipping off his bed, the stone floor was painfully cold underfoot compared to the warmth of where Dorian had sat. It took him a moment to recognize the Inquisitor standing on the other side of the door once he’d opened it; hair drenched from the rain and strung together in wet bunches. There was a blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, also darkened from the downpour. Dorian had opened the door at the tail end of the thunder, when Lavellan’s eyes were still squeezed shut in a flinch.

“Ah, hey, lovely weather, in’t?” Lavellan greeted weakly, breaths coming out in little cloudy puffs. “Can I come in?” Wordlessly, brows raised, Dorian stepped aside to let him pass.

It didn’t matter where Lavellan stood; a puddle would form under his feet within seconds. He parked himself in one spot in the middle of the room, shaking like a leaf under his soaked blanket. Dorian shut out the wind and rain and skirted around him, looking halfway between amused and concerned. Lavellan shrugged off his coverings, revealing a baggy, also relatively damp tunic.

“Misplace your coin purse in the middle of a card game?” Dorian ventured, taking the blanket from him. He floundered, looking for somewhere to put it. He settled for tossing it over the rim of his bathtub, where it landed with a wet slop. He picked up a bath robe and brought it back over, nudging Lavellan’s feet to make him step onto it.

“Oh, you know… just felt like getting out.” Lavellan replied lamely, drawing his arms close around himself as the chill of the castle sunk into his damp clothing.

“Right. I can hardly think of a better time.” Dorian said, crossing his arms over his chest. Lavellan flashed him a tight, awkward smile that told him to stop pressing the issue.

“Can I borrow a shirt?” Lavellan asked casually, changing the subject. Dorian let out a scoff.

“This is the first time you visit me at my quarters and here you are making demands,” he chided, moving to his wardrobe regardless. If Lavellan didn’t want questions to be asked, he supposed he should comply. At the very least to not anger the man whose castle he was sleeping in. He pulled a tunic from within, tossing it back in the elf’s direction. It was sleeveless, as he was accustomed, but it would have to do.

Lavellan held the offered garment between his knees as he slipped out of his own sodden shirt. He bent over, working to take the tie from his hair so he could dry the sopping strands in the already damp article. Dorian busied himself by climbing back onto his bed. If he was going to be caught staring--which was increasingly likely--he would at least endeavor to not look like a slack-jawed yokel when it happened. Lavellan flicked his hair back and then tossed his sodden shirt towards the tub, as well. Dorian took another drink of his wine, staring over the rim as Lavellan tied up his hair. It gave him quite the view.

It was a bad idea to stare, to be sure, but he wasn’t stopping. He never did. His lips paused at the mouth of his glass, just watching, and it was no longer the wine he was savouring. Little smatterings of scars and stretch marks lined the elf’s otherwise smooth, sun-kissed skin. In the candlelight, he could make out the red ink of tattoos in the same style as his faded vallaslin, curled against one side of his chest and up the shoulder. There were more tattoos--rather more like gently-sloping lines--running from his sternum to his abdomen, as well as a few along one side that dipped below the hem of his trousers. Dorian's traitor mind conjured up thoughts of what it would be like to trace them; with his hands, then with lips and tongue. Teeth. The sounds he might earn. Lavellan slipped on the borrowed shirt, covering the shapes Dorian had been tipsily committing to memory.

“Cold in here,” Lavellan complained, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, “I don’t know how you stand it.” At least he could still ogle his arms. That was respectable enough, wasn’t it? So long as he didn’t get too caught up in what those arms could do. It shouldn’t have been a problem, had it been anyone _else’s_ arms. As always, Lavellan seemed to be an exception. The wine wasn’t helping.

“I don’t.” He replied, focusing back on his profile, “I mean--have you met me?” Lavellan fell back lazily against the bed, his laugh shaking his chest.

“True enough. So, what? You light a little fire before you go to sleep? What do you do?” Dorian set his wine back on his bedside table and sat up against his headboard.

“Something like that,” he answered, “as close to lighting a fire as I can get without burning to death in my sleep.”

“Well, thank goodness you have _some_ restraint.” Lavellan hummed, eyes softly closed. Dorian nudged him with one foot, making his brows furrow tightly, though his eyes didn’t open. It wasn’t that Dorian would be _adverse_ to Lavellan sleeping in his bed. Some tucked-away part of himself rejoiced at the idea, even. It was the more cautious, paranoid part that told him to be wary. To not give into it so easily, lest he look too eager.

“Did you come here just to sleep in my bed?” He accused, nudging him once more. “If so, I’m afraid I may disappoint.” Lavellan batted away his foot, eyes still stubbornly closed.

“Such a terrible host.” He lamented in a sigh, already sounding half-asleep.

“Well, it’s no match for whatever extravagant overspending they did on _your_ quarters, I’m quite sure. I also tend to use up all the blankets. A terrible night’s sleep is what it would be, that’s all.” Dorian corrected. His foot came to rest almost at Lavellan’s shoulder, and though he wasn’t going to nudge him anymore, Lavellan took it upon himself to preempt any possible hostilities. He grabbed the mage’s calf and yanked it closer, holding it as if he was determined to either wrestle it or use it as a blanket. Dorian let out a surprised sound as he was tugged closer. Damn him. Damn him! He was making things more difficult than he had any right to. Namely, keeping his mind on the conversation, rather than any number of thoughts cropping up at being manhandled so easily.

“I, ah…” Lavellan trailed off, eyes finally open, though Dorian couldn’t see it with his eyes now also on the ceiling. The rain continued to drum hard against the roof. “...Probably an odd time to say it, but I came here for a distraction. Or… _anything,_ really. Didn’t want to be alone.” His fingers dug absently into the material covering Dorian’s leg. He resisted the urge to squirm at the feeling, but he held out, if only to not ruin the heartfelt moment.

“Well, you’re welcome anytime.” He volunteered. Lavellan made a sound caught between a scoff and a sigh.

“I knew you’d say something like that,” he murmured, releasing the mage’s leg and shifting to sit up. His lips pulled into a childish frown, “you can be really insufferable, you know that? One minute, we’re joking, and the next you’re treating me like I’m the most important man in the world. The nerve of it all.” He puffed, half serious and half joking as he waggled an accusatory finger towards him. Dorian sat up on his elbows, face scrunching in something fit to jab back. And he would’ve, if it wasn’t for the honest sadness on Lavellan’s face tripping him up. Still, his want to argue resurfaced, and the two feelings warred.

“You’re one to talk,” he snipped, the wine furthering the success of his want to argue. “ _Y_ _ou're_ always being _decent_ with me. Being my friend. Giving me distance and watching my back and forgiving me when I’m being an ass. As _if_ you don’t have something better to be doing! Kissing babies or saving old women from drowning in wells, or what have you.” He spat, incredulous. He could’ve crossed his arms huffily and stormed away if they were both standing. If he could leave him like this. He wasn't angry, or even willing enough to act like he was. Not with how Lavellan’s face fell to an ashamed, frustrated frown. Whatever part of his argument had been joking seemed to fall flat. Guilt started to rise. A stiff silence fell between them.

“You’re right.” Lavellan murmured, the last of the knot in his brow crumbling with a soft sigh, “it’s stupid. I…” his eyes dancing along the floor, then to the tapestry-covered walls, then the candle burning low at the bedside. Everywhere except for the man sitting at the other end of the bed. He melted with a longer sigh, the argument fizzling out along with it.

“...Everyone here treats me like that. Like I’m somehow worth more; like I’m the most important man in the room just because of a title. But I don’t…” He gripped his own elbows in a loose embrace, still watching the candle flame flickering. The easy, half-serious argument now gone, the mood changed to something more honest and Dorian braced himself. A flash of lightning lit up the room. Lavellan didn’t quite flinch, but he did visibly stiffen. The room stilled once more.

“You… don’t want me to treat you like that?” Dorian ventured.

“No. _Maker,_ no, I want you to treat me like _me._ Like Lavellan.” He finally looked up, irises painted inky black in the low light. There was something desperate and _lonely_ in those eyes. Dorian shifted to sit on his knees. Then, he moved a bit closer.

“I could do it,” he agreed, “but…” it was the wine starting to talk now. Or, at least, emboldening him to, “...what if I told you that I don’t treat you that way because of a title?” Lavellan’s head tilted slightly, a small, hopeful smile crossing his lips that both made Dorian’s chest flutter and his gut turn with nerves.

“Oh?” Lavellan replied, urging him to continue.

“I treat you like the most important man in the room because that’s what you _are_ to me, Lavellan.” It didn’t quite feel like he was the one saying it. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t. It was too sappy and too vulnerable, and all at once regret started to rise in his chest.

“Aside from yourself, I’m sure.” Lavellan hummed, his smile small and giddy. He worried his lower lip in his teeth, and suddenly Dorian couldn’t stop noticing them. The regret started to subside as Lavellan shifted closer.

“Naturally.” he replied, his own voice a bit softer. His lips parted to speak once more, but another flash of lightning had Lavellan stiffening up and he stopped himself. He placed a gentle hand on the elf’s arm, and-- _Maker,_ he was hot to the touch--Lavellan’s brows pulled up and together in an expression as close to puppy eyes as Dorian had ever seen a person pull. _Kiss him,_ a part of him insisted. He shifted closer and Lavellan seemed to follow. One of Lavellan’s hands came to rest on his chest and he paused, waiting to be pushed away. Instead, the hand slid up to his shoulder, inviting him in with a gentle tug.

 _Kiss him before you lose your chance,_ a voice said in the back of his mind, _before he leaves._ Lavellan’s other hand, smothering him with warmth, trailed up his neck until it cupped his jaw. Anyone else and he might’ve been quicker. Less chaste. They might’ve already been moving towards something more. But the tenderness he was being afforded gave him pause, even if it made gooseflesh raise and nerves pull in his gut. He soaked up every long, lingering touch; he had to savour it, should it be his only chance. 

Lavellan’s eyes danced back and forth between his own, in that concerned way they always did when he was trying to peer into his mind and make sure everything was fine. Dorian swallowed hard. Moments like these… didn’t typically have so much meaningful eye-contact.

“Can I…?” Lavellan murmured, barely above a whisper. He didn’t elaborate, but it wasn’t like he needed to. Dorian’s other hand came to rest on his waist, itching to pull him flush and do _something_ to smush this nervous flutter in his stomach. He nodded, barely a moment passing before they were both leaning in. Lavellan, ever eager to accommodate, tilted his head to capture his lips with his own.

It was gentle, at first. He tasted sweet, but so different from the wine. Dorian found he was acutely aware of the hands on him; the fingers digging into his shoulder--desperate, almost; something that made his breath stutter--and that warm, inviting one still cupping his cheek. He leaned into it, ready to melt. Hitched gasps and barely-there moans passed the imperceptible distance between them. The hand at his shoulder released him, sliding up to his other cheek. His face held between two warm, inviting hands, Dorian was released. Lavellan caught his lip in his teeth as they parted, nipping gently, and it took a great deal of willpower to not lean back in again.

He felt lightheaded and needy. It was, in essence, _the_ most Lavellan thing he’d ever experienced. He was already wracked by the feeling of too-warm nerves; his heart clenched in his chest and the tips of his fingers felt at once a bit numb and a bit tingly. He found Lavellan looking him over as if he was his entire _world_ in that moment, and that was what really did him in.

Maker, he wanted Lavellan to ruin him.

“Not what I was expecting,” Lavellan said, softened voice falling past smiling, blushed lips, “but this _is_ a wonderful distraction.”

“Yes, well, I live to serve.” He replied, a bit more breathless than intended. Lavellan’s hands slid down from his cheeks to splay across his chest. He let out an airy chuckle, then gave one firm push, forcing Dorian back just short of his pillows. The landing knocked the air from his lungs, but it did a bit too much for the warmth growing in the pit of his abdomen. He looked up just in time to see Lavellan crawling forth to straddle his thighs, eyes narrowed and inky black. He took in a hiss of breath. Lavellan looked like he would eat him alive and he was entirely at ease with the notion. His hands found Lavellan’s hips before he curled up needily to meet him in another gasping, wanton kiss.

He pulled him closer, canting his hips in a way that had Lavellan taking in a quiet gasp. The soft, keening sound he swallowed coiled tight in his belly. He committed it to memory, already eager to hear more. Lavellan's hands clapped atop his wandering ones, stilling them, and then they were taken from the elf's hips altogether. He froze at once. Their foreheads pressed together, Lavellan breathed out a quiet, _“no,”_ and Dorian couldn’t help his stomach dropping. Lavellan shifted to press a chaste kiss to his cheek before he drew back to look down at him more fully.

“It’s--not yet. Not tonight.” He specified, swallowing between soft, panting breaths. He wrestled the mage's hands in his, bringing them up to press soft kisses against his knuckles. Dorian's head pressed back into the bottom of his pillow and gazed up at him, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious.

“Alright,” he agreed, tentative, though he did his best to not push. He was feeling needy, sure, but he wasn't in the mood to scare him off. “So… what do you want to do?” Lavellan sat up more fully, keeping his hands gently in his grasp. He ran his thumbs over Dorian’s knuckles, drawing a weak, giddy shiver from him with hardly any effort.

“I'd like company. I’m happy to stay here while you read.” Lavellan suggested, giving him a shrug and a warm smile. The one that made it seem like all was right with the world. It faltered with another flash of lightning.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked in a sigh, feeling the need to ask, even if Lavellan would brush it off as nothing, as he always did.

“Fine.” Lavellan chirped, as expected. He let Dorian's hands retreat from his grip. “Just… puts me on edge, after… you know.” He shrugged, letting go of Dorian’s hands to fiddle with his own. At least he’d given an answer, rather than pretend it wasn’t happening. The signs of his mana sickness had faded even before reaching Skyhold, but it had been a scant week since his little _incident_ had happened. Both the surgeon and Solas had given him examinations and both had claimed he was no worse for wear.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked.

“Let me hang around.” Lavellan repeated in earnest. Dorian flashed as encouraging a smile as he could muster.

“Very well. I am _excellent_ company.” He replied.

-

It was a bit difficult to focus on his reading, given the distracting weight on his left side. Lavellan had all but commandeered his arm--not that he minded--to hold within his grasp. He kept a loose fistful of Dorian's shirt in one hand, his legs tangled together with Dorian's. It felt... domestic, almost. It was odd, given they'd only shared a small handful of kisses following the first. The thunderstorm was gone, now, but Lavellan stayed. Dorian found himself giddy, and it was all he had to keep it from going to his head. Lavellan had always been a tactile sort of person; even a dalliance would be rife with too-tender touching, he was sure. He should simply embrace it, as he yearned to.

After a few hours and only a scant few pages actually read, he summoned the courage to glance in the elf's direction. It was with no small measure of relief that Dorian found him asleep. He relaxed an inch, knowing he had no audience. He set his book onto his bedside table, careful to not let the other man stir. Dully, he wondered what he'd do if he needed to piss later on in the night. He supposed he'd deal with that once he came to it.

Lavellan looked... peaceful. The way he did when he picked herbs, or... come to think of it, he rarely seemed so expressionless. His brow had lost its usual knit, which Dorian only realized now that he'd seen him without. There was a ghost of a smile to his lips, and he supposed there was a pleasant dream happening, somewhere in his unconsciousness. Tentatively, he brushed a long strand of snowy-blonde hair from his face. He was careful to not touch the ears; he hadn't a clue what that'd do, and he was loathe to ever give up such a pleasant view.

It was hesitant, and probably a bad idea, but he couldn't give up the opportunity. Once the lights went out, he pressed a barely-there kiss to Lavellan's cheek. He wasn't sure what he was thinking; considering such a careless kindness. Who was it for? Certainly not Lavellan.

Lips drawn into a pensive frown, Dorian shuffled beneath the covers, using his free arm to toss them partway over the elf, as well. Cloying warmth stayed in his chest, even as he endeavoured to sleep. It took a great deal of trying, given he felt the impending goodbye coming from hours away. What a waste it would be to sleep, when the object of his weeks--no, _months--_ of boyish, lovesick pining was clinging tight to his side. He supposed he could put it off a while longer.

He turned onto his side, meticulously working his arm out of the elf's grasp. He shuffled a bit closer; surprised, amused, and a bit shy when Lavellan did the same, seemingly without realizing. Strong, lithe arms encircled him and Dorian found he was unable to move. The paralysis was mostly of his own making. His eyes adjusted to the dark and, even as they drooped, Dorian studied Lavellan's face. It was a welcome final sight before they inevitably fell closed.


	17. A New End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the first "section" of the story. There are three in total.

The moonlight filtered in through the silken drapes, casting the extravagant bedroom in angular patches of light. Lavellan slipped out of the large, plush bed and padded on bare feet over the carpeted ground. He tread towards the open balcony doors, where a soft gust of wind kicked up the drapes. He leaned onto the doorway, studying the silhouette against the balcony.

“Trouble sleeping?” He asked. They turned, hair illuminated in waving strands of silvers and blacks in the moonlight.

“Something like that.” She replied, offering a mirthless smile. Her crows’ feet caught in the backlight before her face fell once more. Lavellan folded his arms over his chest, a softer smile playing on his lips.

“...Anything I can do for you?” He asked, his drawl coming off strong. Her hand lingered on the railing, and at the question, she turned her back to him fully.

“Perhaps.” She replied. She didn’t elaborate. A breath of a chuckle escaped Lavellan’s lips and he strode forward with slow, meandering steps. A soft breeze passed the balcony, kicking up his hair and casting a few strands across his face. He came to stand behind her, one of his hands settling at her elbow and the other atop hers where it rested on the balcony railing. She let out a long, soothing sigh that he could feel against his chest.

Together, they watched the bobbing lights on the water. Shapes and shadows moved against the roads and waterways below, another world away. Gulls called out and the waves replied with a crashing that Lavellan barely had to strain to hear against the sound of both their breath. Ears filled with the sounds of the sleeping world, he was startled back to the present when she spoke once more.

“Thank you for your company,” she said softly, “I’m sure I needn’t tell you that this stays between us. It shouldn’t get out that I…” she trailed off. His brows raised, no hurt or surprise twanging in his chest.

“...Fucked an elf?” He finished, a laugh in his tone.

“...Yes.” She replied, voice barely above a whisper. He bit back another laugh at her expense. Instead, he trailed his hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder.

“Alright.” He agreed. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I _am_ a reasonable man, after all.” She glanced up at him, brows pulling into a furrow. For a moment, he caught a glint of recognition in the white light of the moon. His lips pulled into a stiff smile before dipping down to press a kiss to her lips, smothering any questions she was working up. She shifted, turning so that they were chest to chest, and her hands made a trail up to his shoulders. She hummed against his lips, pulling back to look up at him with a breathless half-smile.

“Naughty boy,” she accused, her Antivan lilt clinging to her tongue the same as the taste of the wine they’d been sharing, “trying to get me back into bed?” He let out a laugh that rumbled through his chest. He tilted his head as he looked down at her, his own hands sliding to rest at her hips.

“Afraid not,” he replied in a murmur, “I’ll be taking my leave soon enough.” He hoisted her up so that she would sit on the balcony railing, a surprised laugh passing her lips.

“Oh?” She hummed, “so soon?”

“Now, now,” he replied, faking sternness, “weren’t you intent on not being caught? You should really make up your mind.” Her hands slid back down his bare chest, tracing the lines of his tattoo.

“You’re starting to sway me,” she said in a sigh, “you seem to be quite good at that.” His hands slid along her thighs, then moved to where her hands now traced the line of his sternum. He dwarfed her hands in his, taking them from where they explored his skin.

“That _is_ my job, love,” he drawled, catching her lips once more. This time, when he pulled away, he laid a hand on her chest and gave her one hard push. She fell back with little to stop her, hardly any time to scream before she was falling into the dark. A loud crashing indicated she’d met the pavement. Lavellan spent little time lingering at the balcony. He strode back inside, picked up his discarded shirt from her desk chair and slipped it on.

Next, he moved about the room with a practiced efficiency; he slipped a card from within his jacket pocket to lay upon her desk. Then, shrugging the article on, he picked up his boots at the same time as he made the room look less like a romp had happened. He made his side of the bed, smoothed the sheets, and, as somewhat of an afterthought, took a keyring from off the hook on her side.

He held the keyring in his teeth as he popped her bedroom door open, straining to hear any activity in the hallway outside. Distantly, there was some snoring. A self-satisfied smile crossed his lips. He shut the door again, careful to not let the latch click too loudly.

He moved into the adjoined bathing room and opened the window. He climbed onto the rim of the tub to reach the windowsill and, one foot at a time, he stepped onto the trim on the exterior of the building. Moving quickly, he shut the window before creeping forth to the drain pipe that was bracketed all the way down the one brick wall, down into the darkened street below.

He climbed carefully down the pipe, pausing each time he heard a noise from the world around. A dog barking, a carriage passing distantly, or a disrupted snore. He dropped onto the cobbled road with a grunt and glanced both ways along the unlit alleyway before taking off at a jog.

-

Lavellan hadn’t realized it was a dream until he was awake, gasping for air and scrambling to sit up. In the moment, he hadn’t felt worried or frightened, but it was the realization that came with consciousness that stirred him into a panic. It had been a memory. It was _him_. His marked hand flared to life and he squinted in the sudden light. A shifting, followed by a sleepy groan, startled him into hiding his hand under the sheets. Sunlight filtered in through the slim window along one wall, casting a long rectangle of light along Lavellan’s blanket-covered legs as he wriggled to sit up. His other hand slapped over his chest, heartbeat racing beneath his fingertips.

“What is it?” Dorian drawled, voice half-muffled as he moved to appear from the mound of blankets and pillows he had accumulated overnight. Squinting, he watched Lavellan card his long fingers through his messy updo.

“It’s nothing.” Lavellan answered quickly, already slipping out of the bed. If it was already sunrise, he would have a war table meeting soon enough. That would give him a few hours’ distraction from… _whatever_ he’d seen. He'd need to grab his journal. Shit. It was still in his chambers, wasn't it? He circled around to the other side of the bed, taking down his now wavy hair and trying to tame it with only his hands.

“I should be going.” He scrambled around, clumsy with sleep still clinging to him. He grabbed his still half-soiled blanket and shirt from the edge of the tub.

“...Alright.” Dorian murmured, bed creaking as he sat up. Lavellan slipped out of his borrowed tunic, exchanging it for his damp one.

“I’m sorry, I just have a meeting to get to,” Lavellan said, breathless from his rush. He paused to tie back his fringe in his normal style before offering Dorian the shirt. “I can make it up to you. Promise.”

“No need,” Dorian replied, his voice halfway to a sigh, “hardly your fault for being the busiest man in Thedas.” Lavellan paused, eyes flitting over Dorian’s face. He was studying the shirt in his hands, pointedly ignoring his gaze as he was practically halfway out the door already.

 _“Promise.”_ He repeated, smoothing a hand over the mage’s cowlicked hair. He looked up at him for that, at least. He let out a more teasing, begrudging sigh that brought a smile to Lavellan’s lips.

 _“Alright.”_ He folded. “Wine is nice. Or blankets, if you’re going to be practical about things.” The list was mostly a joke, but it alleviated a bit of the tension.

“Excellent. Good man.” Quickly, Lavellan leaned in to lay a gentle peck on his cheek. He turned, plucked his sodden blanket from the floor, and left with a final, lingering glance over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jokes on you, this is a murder mystery now


	18. A Polished Shoe Fits the Wrong Foot no Better Than a Tarnished One

The door to his chambers shut and Lavellan was left to look down at the cluster of parchment he had been handed. The steps of Leliana’s agent faded from the other side of his door and he scaled the stairs to collapse into his desk chair. Topping up his glass of wine, he kicked up his feet onto the far corner of his desk.

“Minerva de Campo,” he read aloud, humming lowly. Antivan merchant, specializing in textiles. He paused, re-reading the next few lines. _Suspected duplicity,_ the parchment informed, _posthumous conviction for slave trading within Antiva City and Treviso._ His eyes faltered on the section that followed. _Cause of death: suicide_. He read it and re-read it until he had to look away to soothe his stinging eyes.

His gaze moved to Leliana’s scrawled notes within the margin. _Died 9:37 Dragon, age 48._ He took a warming drink of his wine. There were a few more notes, mostly excusing a lack of detail due to the original obituary being vague and shady. At the bottom of the page, in that familiar scrawl, was a final note: _it’s Antiva, probably a hit._ It was a fair enough point, though it forced a frown from his lips. He set the report down on his desk, atop a hundred other forgotten papers.

Next, to his surprise, was an unrelated letter. Scrawled at the top was Leliana’s writing once more, though it was mismatched to the body of the note. _Received this morning by raven as a response to my contacting a ‘Clan Lavellan’ to the north._ The rest of the note was on a piece of rough, tanned parchment. The script wasn’t Common, but he found he could read it with little trouble.

 _My brother,_ it began. That was something. How strange it was, that two simple words could answer a number of questions all on their own. _I must apologize. If what this letter says is true, it's my fault that you are now lost in this unfamiliar world. It was my meddling that sent you to the Conclave._ His lips pulled into a firmer frown. Whomever this brother of his was, he had a great deal to make up for. _I have kept the news of your attendance from father; I’m certain he would have my head if he found out. Ask me whatever you wish. I'll do my best to provide you answers. Please, keep yourself safe. Love, Yevan._

Lavellan folded the letter in his hands, considered it, and then unfolded it to read it once more. Letting out a stiff sigh, he laid the letter down atop the report. The final parchment was, to his continued surprise, another letter. Another preface read: _this arrived hours after the first._ Ah. So his shared clan had plenty to say, it seemed. The script of this letter was elegant and smooth; a well-practiced hand, compared to the first.

 _Yevan is not as clever as he thinks. I will come to Highever. If you receive this letter, please meet me. Walk in peace._ At the bottom of the page was a stamped symbol; a halla whose horns budded into flowers. Lavellan let out a laugh despite himself. Evidently, he had plenty to catch up on.

-

Lavellan unfolded and then refolded the letter in his hands, brows drawn together in pensive worry. The off-beat sound of hooves coming up beside him had him hiding the contents of the letter once more, even if he was one of the few who could read it at all.

“I know that look,” Varric addressed, “that’s the face of a man with family troubles. You need me to front the bill tonight at the tavern, you just say the word.” Lavellan let out a laugh, a bit of his nervousness shining through. He was happy to let Varric try and comfort him in his way. Dorian had tried to put him at ease, but he’d freely admitted to family-related struggles being a weak point of his. He tried, but sympathetic looks and a few gentle touches only did so much to soothe Lavellan’s growing worries.

“Just _relax_ ,” Varric instructed, riding along beside him at a gentle trot, “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.” Lavellan’s face warped into a childish pout as he tucked the letter into his jacket. “Any idea who sent it?” The pout turned to a full frown.

“Not my brother,” Lavellan replied, “It seems that someone from my clan wants to reach out without him knowing.” The gates of Highever, in a similar style to most other holds in Ferelden, were a thick stone, half-collapsed and only made up for by the newer post-Blight wooden supports.

“Sounds a little shady to me.” Varric hummed. They left their mounts secured and began the trek over the muddy, mashed ground up the gently-sloping hill towards the centre of the town. It was scarcely populated in the morning light. Distantly, gulls cried out as they circled the docks facing the Waking.

Tucked into one corner of the town was a worn-looking chantry. There was a cloaked figure poised just outside the door, their back to the worn wood wall. When Lavellan’s gaze passed over them, he paused. The stranger sent a wave, beckoning him closer. That would be their mystery contact. Lavellan’s steps faltered uneasily as they approached. Varric gave him an encouraging pat to his arm to urge him on.

As they got within only a few strides of the chantry, the hooded stranger stood to greet them. They moved away from the door and dropped their hood. An elf though they were, they looked nothing like the Inquisitor. Where Lavellan’s hair was a soft grey-blonde, this man’s was a honey brown with dappled streaks of grey at his temples. Their vallaslin and way of styling their hair was similar; both of them had sprawling, rune-like tattoos along their forehead and cheekbones with long, loosely-secured hair. Lavellan’s tattoos were a faded white against his skin--almost like a scar; only visible in sunlight--while this man’s were a darker red. The same as the tattoo hidden under Lavellan’s armor.

Lavellan took a tentative step closer, making no effort to hide the suspicious look on his face. The man, seemingly too old and worn to be his brother, was less reserved. He marched forward, worry and despair creasing his brow. Lavellan nearly flinched back, prepared to draw his blade until he realized the man was coming in for a hug.

 _“Ma da’lin,”_ The unfamiliar elf greeted, pulling Lavellan into a warm, if rough, embrace. One of his ring-covered hands rested over Lavellan’s back, eyes tightly shut as he gave him a squeeze. Lavellan’s eyes were wide even as he pulled back. He ran the words over in his head again and again until--

“Father.” He breathed, taking a half-step back. A few surprised looks were exchanged by the party at his back. The other man regarded him with a look of growing sorrow, paying the others no mind.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” He whispered. “That letter said you were… different. Forgetful.” He shook his head, eyes glassy. He stepped close enough to brace a hand at the junction between Lavellan’s jaw and neck. “Do you know your name?” Lavellan shook his head, eyes wide but free of tears. He wanted to be sad; to mourn the loss of the memories he had of his own father, but… they weren’t there. There were only foggy imprints. The man before him, managing a bittersweet smile, was nothing more than that: a man. A stranger.

“Syrillon. You’re my _Syrillon_.” He supplied, voice breaking to a whisper. Lavellan’s head tilted slightly, searching the other man’s face for answers that wouldn’t come.

“Come, we should speak.” The elf instructed, putting on a more stoic face. He gestured to the shabby chantry behind him. Lavellan nodded, then spared a glance over his shoulder to the party. Varric sent a wave, speaking for the group to tell him they would wait.

-

The chantry was quiet now that he was alone. His father had left him there to return to his room at the tavern; his boat back across the Waking would be coming soon and he had to get back to the clan before anyone missed him. Evidently, his brother had taken great pains to hide Leliana’s letter. From what he had been told, that was par for the course. The silence left him to soak up everything his father had said. Everything he’d been told.

The elder elf--Hatharal--had run a thumb over his vallaslin, a peculiarly sad smile on his lips. _It’s gone,_ he’d said, halfway to a laugh, _your markings._ Lavellan-- _Syrillon--_ hadn’t known what to say to that. Hatharal had said he understood. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't angry, either. _Things change,_ he said, _whether you want them to or not._ He told him about their clan; an old, semi-nomadic group. He’d laughed, crinkling his eyes, when he said they would be moving this spring, as tradition dictated. It had been thirty-five years; eight since he’d last seen his son. It was in those eight years many of his memories were seated, Lavellan supposed. He hadn’t asked, but nothing in Hatharal’s stories had pointed towards the things Lavellan had seen in his dreams.

 _Providence,_ Hatharal had deemed it, _that my son would reappear on the eve of our leaving._ He had invited Lavellan to see home one last time before it would be left to nature’s whim, to decompose and become decrepit as the Earth willed. He said he would visit if he was able, though he knew he couldn't. Knowing Thedas, it would crumble to pieces the second he stepped away from his duties. Though he had no recollection of _home,_ he still felt he owed it to Syrillon--to whom he used to be--to at least make an effort. To appease his father, if nothing else.

Hatharal had told him of his brother; in line to be Keeper, a brave man--if a bit impractical--and an fine warrior. Evidently, he also had an older sister: Valaril. From what he’d been told, she was the First of their clan, as well as their strongest healer. He spoke of them with such fond pride it made Lavellan mourn his lost memories, if only for the many shared stories he was surely missing out on.

He had been left with the knowledge of the conditions upon which he’d left the clan: at twenty years old, he left to move north, in search of another life. _Fulfillment, or at least some fun stories,_ had been his reasoning, those eight years ago. What had happened in the time since his departure was as much a mystery to his father as it was to him. Thus, though the meeting had answered plenty of the questions daunting him in his waking hours, he was left with plenty more in their place.

The old wooden doors of the chantry creaked open, then shut. A single set of footsteps shifted every other floorboard, ruining any chance of a gentle approach. Dorian meandered along the aisle to where Lavellan sat, halfway down one of the rows of pews. He took a seat beside him, casting his eyes up to the tall, well-worn statue of Andraste at the front of the chantry hall. The calling of the gulls was audible even through the dust-caked wood of the chantry roof.

“Suppose I know what my father’s like, now, don’t I?” Lavellan piped up, picking the dirt out from under his nails. “Since you asked.”

“...I did, didn’t I?” Dorian hummed, leaning one arm over the back of the pew. The tip of his pointed boot poked at the back of the seats in front of them, teasing the loose wooden backrest.

“Seems nice.” Lavellan hummed, brows raised with the consideration, “kind. You should’ve seen the way he talked about my siblings.” He let out a soft laugh, “I’m sure he worked hard to hide all the skeletons in our closet.”

“You think he’d do that?” Dorian asked, the upwards tilt of his lips growing audible. 

“Every family has its problems.” Lavellan replied, not totally answering the question. A lull fell over them.

“So… you know your name now, yes? That’s… good, I suppose.” Dorian asked, changing subjects. Suddenly feeling needier, Lavellan shifted closer to him, snatching up his closer hand to hold in his lap.

“I suppose. Though I don’t have much use for it.” He replied.

“No? Seems a waste of a perfectly good name.”

“Perhaps. Lavellan feels more comfortable, if I’m honest. Not many people get to choose their name, but I'd like to keep this one.” He held Dorian’s hand between both of his own, running the pad of his thumb over his knuckles before tracing the veins with a more feather-light touch. It gave him something to focus on aside from the peculiar sad numbness growing in his own fingertips. A loneliness, or perhaps a longing, for something outside his reach.

“That makes _my_ job easy, anyway.” Dorian mused, “I’d be a terrible lover if I said the wrong name in the bedroom.” Lavellan let out an unguarded laugh, leaning against him.

“So, that’s what you are, then? My _lover?_ ” He asked, leaning his head upon Dorian’s shoulder, casting doe-eyes up towards him.

“If you’d like.” Dorian replied, suddenly more hesitant.

“I would.” He replied easily, “though it’s a shame we missed the courting. Not that I’d have a clue as to what to _do,_ mind you, but I hear it’s good fun.”

“I never took you for the romantic type,” Dorian said, “though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. If ever I knew a man who would moon over romantic poetry, you would be the one.”

“Ah, I am rather a sap, aren’t I?” Lavellan hummed, intertwining his fingers with Dorian’s.

“Certainly,” he replied in a laugh, “an incredible oddity, given how many people you kill on a daily basis.” Lavellan let out a quieter chuckle that quickly dissolved. He grew silent, then moved to stop leaning onto his shoulder. Glancing to him, Dorian searched his profile for an inkling of what had changed. Lavellan’s lips pursed, then turned to a frown as he studied their boots side by side.

“I wanted to apologize.” He said softly.

“Whatever for?” Dorian asked; gentle, if a bit incredulous.

“The morning, a few days ago. When I slept in your room, I left in a rush. I… had something else on my mind.” A soft sigh passed Dorian’s lips, already speaking for him. “I know what you’re going to say, and it _is_ needed. I want to tell you what was bothering me.”

“You’re not obligated to tell me everything, you know,” Dorian murmured weakly, brows upturned, “you’re allowed to have private worries, the same as me.”

“I know. I just…” Lavellan let out a frustrated grumble, “... you’re good to confide in. Kind, but still sensible, and you give good advice. I'm fortunate to have you as a friend, given everything on my plate. Every day's another helping, it seems.”

“This feels off-topic.” Dorian reminded gently.

“Right. Thank you.” Lavellan sighed, “that morning, I had another memory. It was… incriminating, amongst other things.”

“Oh?” Dorian asked, encouraging him to continue. When he didn’t, he squeezed one of Lavellan’s hands in his grip.

“I saw myself murder a woman.” Lavellan blurted, staring into the middle distance. Dorian blinked for a few moments.

“That _is_ incriminating,” he agreed, “any idea who it was?”

“That’s just the thing.” Lavellan said, looking up to him. “I asked Leliana to look into it for me. I trust in her results, but it all feels… strange. The report said it was a suicide, though _she_ said it was planned.”

“Why’s that?” He asked, brows scrunching.

“Fuck if I know, she just said _it’s Antiva,_ which I guess passes for an excuse.” Lavellan scoffed, gesturing lazily with the impression.

“Well… she isn’t _wrong.”_ Dorian murmured.

“Maybe not, but it still doesn't sit right. She was a criminal, you know? Only charged once she died. Slave trade. But she worked in… textiles, or something. Why was I...?”

“...And if this was a memory, not some trick of the fade? If you really were responsible? What are you going to do with this knowledge, now that you have it?”

“I don’t know.” Lavellan murmured. His brows furrowed an inch. “There isn't much _to_ be done." Then, after a beat, "honestly, I...sort of expected you to make a bigger deal of this.”

“I’ve helped you kill _countless_ strangers.” Dorian drawled. “We’re long past the point of that sort of thing tainting my opinion of you. Though, if I might ask…” Lavellan quirked a brow, inviting him to go ahead, “...how did you do it?”

“I pushed her,” Lavellan answered. Dorian made a vague gesture.

“I mean… what happened aside from that? Was it at a party? Did you break in? Devil’s in the details, my dear.” Lavellan let out a puff of breath.

“We had sex, then I met her on the balcony. We kissed a bit and I shoved her off the railing.”

“Ah," Dorian hummed, nodding slowly. He turned back towards the statue of Andraste, "some interesting foreplay. I’ll thank you to not try that one on me.”

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.” Lavellan replied. “...Thank you. For standing by me on this. It’s appreciated, if uncalled for.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it’s foolish of me, but I am _very_ determined to keep a good opinion of you. I’m quite sure that you have hardly an evil bone in your body.” Lavellan leaned back into him once more, staring into the dusty middle-distance.

“I’d hate to disappoint.” Lavellan murmured, trapping one of Dorian’s hands between his clammy ones.


	19. Home Lives Inside the Chest With Only Lust for Company

The grubby, circular window cast the unfamiliar bedroom in hazy blues. Eyes suddenly open, Lavellan shifted, wriggling out from under the weighty arm of a familiar stranger. They hardly shifted in their slumber when he crept out from under the thin sheets. He searched about the cramped room’s smattering of carelessly-discarded clothing, picking through for the more well-worn pieces. One by one, he remade himself; trousers, which he left unfastened. Boots, then, followed by a dark wrap, cool with old sweat and too breezy for the night chill wandering in through the partly-cracked window. A shudder chased along his spine. Through the dirt-marred glass, he could make out smears of light on the distant water.

He plucked his forgotten jacket off the tucked-in desk chair and slipped from the room, careful to keep the latch from catching as he soothed the door shut. He rubbed at one of his eyes, assuaging the sleep in them for only a passing moment. The stairs creaked in protest as he set his weight upon them. Each step was bogged down with equal parts sleep and bodily ache. A voice from beyond one of the apartment doors called for quiet even before his awkwardly heavy footfalls passed.

The warm, damp air swaddled him as soon as he came to meet it. His only company on the lonesome, cobbled street was the lamplight, making the occasional yellow island amidst the dark. He strode from one to the next, eyes fluttering shut with one long, cleansing sigh. The ache in his back and legs was a welcome distraction. He kept his jacket slung over his shoulder though the air bit at his bare arms and those small parts of his exposed torso. Tracing a familiar path, he listened to each of his footfalls against the stone and how they echoed between the buildings. He passed an alley, suddenly catching a glimpse of the lights on the water in his periphery. It gave him pause. He looked between the water, then towards his distant destination. Weighing his options, a private smile crossed his lips and he turned down the alley.

The water was quiet at this time of night. Distant boats chugged silently along, casting double the lantern light against the inky black sea beneath them. He sat on the edge of the dock, jacket gathered in his hands and boots tucked close at his side. The water pushed up against his bare shins and the barnacle-clad dock with equal fervor. Every lap of the waves gave a low sloshing. The call of the gulls was more occasional; many slumbered in warm little nests much like the other coastal dwellers, awaiting the arrival of the sun over the horizon.

He thumbed over the cold coins in his pocket. Enough for another month’s lodgings with the addition of today’s earnings. Not much for food, but he could get by. A few odd jobs, perhaps a charitable widow or two. Drops of seawater clung to the sparse, brownish hair of his legs when he shifted back. He could take up more clients if he needed. He was starting to tire of oranges. The thought of another two for supper turned his stomach. Silently, he grimaced to himself.

The soft crashing of the waves made his eyes droop. Maybe he could save for a loaf of that strange, seedy bread his neighbor had treated him to. Or maybe he could stop by and offer to clean the eaves; save himself the trouble. Or maybe he could just stop by to chat around lunchtime. She _did_ say he was welcome to visit. _Foolish of her grandchildren,_ he thought, _to skip out on free meals._ Though, he supposed, family of a woman like her wouldn’t need to scrounge.

He plucked his feet from the water and shook off a few spare drops of seawater. He hummed to himself. He could slip his boots on and bear the feeling of wet feet in the leather on his walk home. Else, he could keep his boots off. Deliberating with a frown, he eventually settled for slipping back into them. He didn’t want things he’d seen on the streets to have any chance of being trekked into his bedroom, dingy as his building happened to be. Rife with pests though it was, it at least didn’t have the unruly mix of street filth spread over the floors. He wandered back towards the road, shaking out his legs. The leather clung to his damp skin, hardly shifting with his steps. Just a while longer and he would be in the private paradise of bed.

-

Lavellan awoke with a groggy groan, one clumsy hand coming up to rub at his eyes. His room was already thick with heat from both his balcony doors. He slipped out from under thin sheets for the second time, the moves of his dream replaying with every step. He blinked his eyes shut, willing it to clear the sleep from them. Striding towards one set of doors, they opened to a cold breeze. His bare feet padded over cool stone towards the railing, one of his hands scrubbing over his braided hair. He squinted his eyes in the sunlight, taking in a gulp of the cool air. Skyhold seemed to be suspended in a permanent springtime. That didn’t change the innate chill of the mountains, however. It prickled against his bare skin and gripped his hands and feet. It was another few moments before he slipped back inside.

This dream had felt different from the last. It was lighter; like he'd been a bit more unburdened when he had lived it. He sat down on the plush chair before his vanity, collapsing against the wooden back with a weak sigh. He leaned forward, resting his chin onto one hand, dark eyes meeting his own in the scratched glass.

It was strange to see himself like this. Odd, he found, for his only clue as to the identity of the stranger in the mirror being that they moved in sync. He didn’t _feel_ he looked like that. Wide, brown eyes and an elven nose that had too steep a bridge. A mouth too short for his face; ending too soon for the width of his lips. There was a faded scar above one brow and its brother marred the skin of his cheek.

His long fingers moved to unwind his hair from its entanglement. The strands were left to fall in awkward kinks, still untouched by the corrective caress of his wooden hairbrush. Josephine had been quite proud to present it to him. It was, perhaps, the first gift she had passed along. Strange, how a trinket could survive Haven when so little else did. It laid within reach atop his vanity when his hands stalled, pausing to trace the shape of his eyes.

They were unusual, he supposed. He’d seen no-one else with the same--eyelids that folded so low over his eye and irises so brown they looked black in lower light. He didn’t… _dislike_ them. Whatever else would his eyes look like? He only wondered where they _came_ from. Perhaps the answer would lead him to others like him. Ferelden wasn’t brimming with all sorts--that was clear--so he wasn’t expecting to find answers close at hand.

Hatharal hadn’t said it, but it was clear that Lavellan wasn’t truly his son. He was tremblingly honest and perfectly forthright, so he had trouble doubting that he was a father to who he _had_ been, but they were hardly related. Their traits were dissimilar and almost to the point of being opposite. Lavellan didn’t know what his assumed mother looked like, but he wasn’t sure she could make up for the many differences between them. So, if he and Hatharal weren’t of the same blood, what _was_ he? He had the sinking suspicion that _an elf_ would be the only in-depth answer he would be able to find.

He plucked his brush from where it rested, smoothing over his locks. He brushed back his fringe, pinching it taut with one hand while the other hovered over his small selection of coloured ties. It seemed that that had become the go-to gift for him, now. Or, at least, another thing atop the mound of other items for Josephine to think about. It was either her or Leliana that had been leaving cords of leather or pleasantly-coloured fabric on his desk. He supposed that digging into who the culprit was would lead to it stopping. He was just pleased enough with the free gifts to stay ignorant. Just this once.

He picked out a length of sky blue crushed velvet. It was soft between his fingers as he tied it around his fringe. It was a charming and unusual fabric; likely something Josephine had been afforded by a tailor or some such. Perhaps a tie for some other article--a robe?--that was now forgotten. He clapped a hand over a small clay pot tucked in one corner of his vanity. He opened it and took a small mound of the cream from within upon two of his fingers. He covered it with his other hand as he spread little dots upon his pulse points. He smoothed it into his skin, leaving the cloying scent of prophet’s laurel in its wake.

He stood, feet pointing to his desk, full of every intention to sit and actually get some work done. The faraway sight of Leliana’s report caught his eye and he paused. He didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to feel the awkward creeping of dread as he sat, peculiarly useless, with contextually marooned memories of a woman’s death and nowhere to put them. Leliana had informed him there was nothing to be done--regardless of how frustrated it made him--to have some vague context for a woman’s death already four years past usefulness. Nothing to be done, she said, to appease her remaining distant family or the rest of her world that had long since moved on. Even if there _was_ something to be done, he didn’t expect that she would allow him to face the consequence. There was no time in his tightly-packed world-saving schedule to be tried for murder. Josephine would be pulling her hair out just trying to work execution into their shared planner.

He supposed Dorian would also be rather cross at the notion. The thought made him chuckle, interrupting the long-winded silence of his chambers. _How like him,_ he thought, _to expect selfishness from a man of charity._ He would hardly have him any other way. Someone had to match his faults in equal measure. Feet still pointed towards his desk, he glanced in the direction of his door. Dorian likely wouldn’t be awake yet. But surely, he could find something to do. He had earned a break, he decided. At least until the notion of paperwork seemed less daunting.

He slipped on a pair of trousers and a tunic and cut a path towards the gardens. They would be quiet and, more preferably, bereft of nobles so early in the morning. The stone was cold underfoot all the way down and the grassy dirt was no different. Dew still clung to the longer strands that lined the perimeter of the garden, untouched by the caretakers. He strode towards one of the tall clay pots where felandaris grew freely. He knelt beside it, taking a few sparse leaves and tucking them into his pocket. He did the same with the embrium beside it.

Knelt in the wet grass, he cast his gaze up to where little birds darted back and forth across the gardens. One of them, rotund, with big, black eyes landed a few strides from him. He sat back on his haunches and tilted his head back at it. He and the bird sat watching eachother for a few moments.

“Good morning.” He said softly. The bird cocked its head, then looked towards the ground. It pecked fitfully at the loose dirt. “Ah, yes. Breakfast would be good. Quite right.”

He cut himself off with a yawn, which he stifled with the back of his hand. He climbed to his feet with a grunt. In trying to wipe the greenish grass smears from his dark trousers, he only succeeded in rubbing stains into the fabric. He bid the bird farewell and left the garden, feeling rather flighty with only a brief visit. Still, his stomach rumbled, assuring him that he’d made the correct decision.

He followed the smell of cooking turnips to the kitchens. It seemed to be ever-present; being one of the few vegetables they had near-constant access to. He slipped inside, giving a warm word of greeting to the cook already working diligently at the fire. She looked surprised, but appeared to relax into tense silence once the Inquisitor elected to pick through the pantries rather than chat. He nabbed a few plums and a handful of dates from a little box that had likely been gifted to him... at some point. He raised the fruits in a toast to the cook as he left once more, his boon now selected.


	20. But Lust is A Worthwhile Distraction When the Other Half is Hurting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter onwards, this story will update on Sundays. Maybe there'll be bonus on Wednesdays. Depends!

It was strange how easily Lavellan made him want for things he’d never gotten a taste of. Every morning after waking up next to him, now bereft of his company, paled in comparison. It was equal parts worrying and frustrating; he had grown so needy so fast but his pride demanded he keep some small distance. It wouldn’t do for him to go trailing along after him like a lost puppy, no matter how it tempted him. Dorian was left laying in a cool bed, frowning, trying to assure himself that he was perfectly happy with the feeling. Dimly, he was aware of how foolish it appeared.

So, remedying things, he slipped out of the bed and elected to act a lovesick fool somewhere else. He put on a tunic and a pair of fresh trousers. Seated at his desk with a comb in hand, his mind wandered to breakfast. His hair was still damp from his bath the evening prior, so the teeth slid through with little effort. He smoothed a bit of wax between his hands before running them through his detangled hair. A mirror in one hand, he used the other to put the finishing touches on his coif. His free hand then searched out for the small, fine brush he used for kohl. Perhaps he could snatch some dates from the kitchens; he _knew_ Lavellan had a stash tucked away in there somewhere. He could use something sweet.

He pulled on his other accoutrements, feeling the chill gradually fade with more and more layers. Each time he felt the cold, his traitor mind reminded him of just how _warm_ it was to be near Lavellan. How his skin was hot to the touch. Damn him! Lavellan wasn’t even _there_ and his hands were still faltering on his buckles for favour of fantasizing. He would have to do something about that. Soon, preferably. Getting lost in thought in the privacy of his own room was one thing; it simply wouldn’t do to be caught daydreaming by someone else. He could always snark his way out, but it was the principle of the thing! Him, caught mooning? It would almost certainly get back to Lavellan somehow, and for all his faults to parade before the other man’s eyes, he wouldn’t let _needy_ and _lovelorn_ be two more.

Perhaps, if Lavellan stopped by his alcove, they could sneak off to somewhere private and he could do _something_ about all these ideas the elf had put into his head.

He plucked his book from his bedside to tuck under his arm before stepping out of his room. Already, the chill was returning, and _already,_ his mind was wandering once more. He let out a soft sigh of defeat. Perhaps a day spent mooning _would_ get it out of his system. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to tackle the tall pile of paperwork he was sure to come upon when he reached his study desk in the library. He brushed past a few early-rising soldiers and chantry scholars on his short trip towards the rotunda. At least _walls_ would do something to shut out the cold. He slipped inside the library and headed for his alcove, faltering when he spotted his desk. Paperwork though there was, a plum and a handful of dates atop a handkerchief caught his attention.

He smiled softly to himself, plucking a small note from beneath the larger fruit, upon which was a chicken-scratch comment. _Something sweet for my sweetheart._ Dorian rolled his eyes, unable to restrain an amused snort, though he still tucked the messily-scrawled note into his pocket for safe-keeping. He descended upon his reading chair with the sweet gifts in tow. Perhaps Lavellan had read his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time; the man could seemingly look into his eyes, glimpse his deepest worries, and send him off with exactly the right nicety to make it all feel alright for a time. Perhaps he simply needed to work on his tells.

-

His knuckles rapped gently on the hard wood of Lavellan’s chamber door. The main hall was bereft of people; only a careless smattering of weary guards and Varric’s faraway hearthfire took up residence in the cool, drafty air. Could he even hear the knock? Dorian moved to rap once more, but the wood began to creak. In only a moment, it was being pulled open.

“Evening,” Lavellan greeted, leaning his shoulder into the doorframe. Dorian almost wanted to look over it to get a glimpse at what lay inside. “What can I do for you?” His words were even and diplomatic, though the cheeky smile that crossed his lips was anything but.

“I was hoping to have a word with you,” Dorian replied, slipping the note from his pocket, “about this, as well as a few other things.” _You,_ he would have said, if the guards near the throne weren’t watching with open ears, _and those lovely hands of yours._ Lavellan stepped aside with an easy nod, allowing Dorian to slip past the door. He floundered in the worn-down landing, waiting for Lavellan to kick the door closed and waltz up beside him.

“So, not a fan of my poetry, then?” Lavellan drawled, running one hand along the dust-caked railing. They turned a corner and came upon a set of more well-built stairs.

 _“That’s_ what you’re calling it?” Dorian replied, halfway to a laugh. “Oh, my dear, I have so _much_ to show you.” They met the room itself and at once Dorian felt a bit of jealousy rise. The furnishings weren’t quite his style, but he had _rugs_ and a _fireplace!_ How a room with such a tall ceiling could be so _warm_ was beyond him.

“Do you like it?” Lavellan asked, wandering to a desk in the far corner. He tidied a stack of parchment and pushed in the tall-backed chair for the night. “Josephine went on for an hour just explaining the tapestries she picked out.”

Dorian’s eyes cast to a rug hanging on the wall above the bed. It was a million threads; a green crescent moon suspended above an endless red sea. Behind, an indigo sky was dotted with a thousand half-stitch stars. Little black boats sailed the twisting crimson waves.

“Yes, it certainly is… _Antivan._ ” He replied, coming to perch on the edge of the bed. Lavellan let out a little laugh that drew Dorian’s attention back to him. He was at his wardrobe, now, where he slipped off his boots and shrugged his dressing robe into a pile. He watched, placid, as Lavellan stripped out of his shirt. He had come by for a precise, well-crafted reason, but now he was starting to lose sight of it. By the way Lavellan smiled in his direction before slipping on a different tunic, he was beginning to think that was the intention.

“I don’t know, I think it has its charms.” Lavellan said. What were they talking about? “The colours are nice. I like the purple.” Ah. Yes. The tapestry. Dorian glanced over his shoulder towards it once more, brows drawn together pensively. It was a rather deep purple. Royal, even. It might’ve been a costly piece in its time, what with all the dyed thread. A few loose stitches made its age more apparent, however. How like Josephine to find such a quaint treasure; striking, though without such a price to pay.

One of Lavellan’s warm hands came to rest atop his bare shoulder. The heel of his thumb rubbed circles into the skin, giving him a tiny, makeshift massage. If he wasn’t on a mission, Dorian might’ve melted under the careful touch.

“Should I be expecting such pleasant little gifts from now on?” He asked, broaching the subject. He might’ve winced, knowing where the talk would go. Lavellan quirked his head, expression betraying nothing but honest interest. A knot in his brow urged him to continue. Dorian slipped the piece of parchment back out, holding it tight between his thumb and forefinger as if a phantom gust of wind would steal it away from him. He waved the note expectantly.

“Ah,” Lavellan hummed, his hand trailing up to rest against the side of Dorian’s neck, thumb grazing his jawline. “Yes, I suppose you should.” He replied. A stiff half-smile crossed Dorian’s lips. It was caught somewhere along the line of bittersweet. He looked away, inspecting the threadbare rug that ran under the bed. He could already feel expectant eyes on him, but Lavellan’s gentle touch never ceased.

“I think that _perhaps_ you had better refrain.” He said, choosing his words carefully. Lavellan’s hand moved up to lay atop the crown of his head, fingers digging into his locks.

“Did you come here just to tell me you don’t like dates?” Lavellan hummed, knowing, scratching his dull nails against Dorian’s scalp.

“It’s more the issue of them coming from _you,_ my dear.”

“What about it is an issue?” Lavellan asked, “specifically.” Dorian looked up at him, lips drawn into a small frown. Lavellan’s hand moved to the nape of his neck and he was distracted, momentarily, by the notion of throwing out the entire issue and letting him touch him however he pleased without paying credence to what people would say.

“You’re the _Inquisitor,_ ” He stressed in a sigh, “and I’m not exactly the best lover for a pristine reputation.”

“Is this something to do with Mother Giselle? The rubbish she was spouting?”

 _“No,_ this is something to do with _you_ not considering repercussions.”

“Dorian, it was just some fruit.” Lavellan said.

“Yes, and next it will be something unbearably thoughtful, and it’ll only grow from there.” He looked up, face scrunched with his contention. “Someone wise would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. He can shower you with all sorts of gifts, you know.”

“Dorian.” Lavellan murmured, brows turning up with his tiny frown. _Damn him._ He was trying to be stern.

 _“Lavellan,”_ he replied, “I adore your thoughtfulness, truly. But you _must_ realize that they’ll paint me as the magister who’s _using_ you.” Lavellan’s hands slid to his cheeks, holding him too gently.

“Does it… bother you?” He asked tentatively.

“That's not the most pressing issue. _You’re_ the one meeting noblemen and kissing babies.”

“If that's the concern, I say let them talk.”

“Naïve, but charming as ever.” Dorian murmured, face scrunching once more.

“I’m serious,” Lavellan chided, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “If you’d rather I didn’t give you gifts, so be it. But I’ll not let the opinions of others dictate how I show you that I care.” It struck him, then, how close to a fantasy this was. Some strong, charming man showing him affection without a care in the world. Throw in two content parents and a warmer climate and he might’ve been in a spot of daydreaming-induced dèja-vu. His gaze downcast, a small smile crossed his lips.

“...Thank you,” he said, changing the subject, “for the fruit. I had been thinking about dates, you know. Perhaps you’ve a knack for mind reading.” Lavellan let out a chuckle and climbed up to straddle his lap, winding both his arms around him in a warm embrace. It left Dorian feeling rather more like a tree than a person, but he still enjoyed it. The warmth and the weight of him in his lap was… certainly _something._ Lavellan shifted to sit a little higher and he had to bite back a groan.

“If I tell Leliana, I bet she could start rumours. Make the Orlesians think I can hear their thoughts. That’d make the Winter Palace a great deal more entertaining, yeah?” Lavellan leaned his head atop Dorian’s, his voice rumbling through his chest.

“I would be surprised if that wasn’t already a rumour.” Dorian replied. His fingers pressed in just at the lower part of Lavellan's waist.

“You should take this off,” Lavellan suggested, plucking at one of the many straps Dorian wore, “would be terrible to sleep in.”

“Right,” he agreed airily, as if he wasn’t entirely focused on the weight of the other man in his lap. Focused enough to not think about the assumption that he'd be sleeping over. Lavellan drew back to catch his lips in a kiss before climbing off him, leaving him a tad lightheaded.

"I'm starting to think you're trying to seduce me." He murmured, a comfortable level of challenge to it. His fingers worked, perhaps a bit clumsily, at the straps and buckles on his person. Lavellan sat on the bed at his back, almost bothering to make it seem like he would help.

"What, only now?" He chuckled, laying his chin on Dorian’s shoulder, hands wandering more than they were getting clasps undone. "Tell you what, though, this is giving me a chance to _really_ appreciate your outfit."

"Thank goodness. Someone's got to do it." 

“I _do_ like all the snakes.”

“My, how lewd,” Dorian ribbed, shrugging off another layer.

“Good to know what does it for you.” Lavellan chuckled, slipping his hands under one of the leather articles. Soon enough, they were all left on the floor beside the bed. Dorian worked to remove his boots and once he turned, he found Lavellan watching him from where he’d perched up against his pillows. He must’ve faltered under the tender gaze, because Lavellan patted the spot next to him on the bed for encouragement.

Dorian moved to climb into the bed, only getting one knee onto it before Lavellan was crawling closer, smoothing his hands over him and tugging him into another sweet, gentle kiss. He could drown in such easy affection, he was sure of it. Hands came to guide his own, leading him into the bed and atop the other man. His knees pressed into the covers on either side of Lavellan’s hips, partway to straddling him. They parted from their kiss only for Dorian to soothe little pecks along his neckline.

“Dorian,” Lavellan hummed, fingers running feather-light through his hair. He paused to glance up at him. He was being watched once more, though now with more tender appreciation than he’d ever seen. It certainly caught him off-guard. For a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it.

“Stay, tonight.” Lavellan said, curling up and away from the pillows beneath him to press another chaste kiss to Dorian’s lips. “Please?” He fell back once more, dark eyes trailing over him. Dorian swallowed hard.

It was one thing for Lavellan to fall asleep in his room. It was another entirely to be properly _asked_ to stay in this one. As if it was his choice. As if he had a real say. A voice in the back of his mind told him the pleasant warmth of feeling _important_ would mean little if this was only a dalliance. He knew better than most others; a soft-hearted man could turn cold as soon as he found a less troublesome way to _pass time._ If he knew how much of a loaded question that was, would he have asked?

“Alright,” he replied, trying to assuage the nervous flutter in his stomach. Dully, he knew that this was what he had worried about. What reason told him would never last. Still, it would be just as easy to pretend; perhaps he could at least have some fun before his heart was dashed into little handsome pieces. “I suppose I could do you a favour. Just this once.” There was a glimpse of a smile in his voice when he dipped back down to press a kiss to Lavellan’s jaw.

“So courteous today,” Lavellan hummed, eyes softly closing. His arms had been looped around Dorian’s neck, but now they unfolded to trail down his sides. His hands drew hot lines up the small of his back, where they slid beneath his shirt. “If I knew fruit was the way to your heart, I might’ve given you some sooner.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Dorian chuckled, biting back a more bittersweet laugh. “If this is us courting, I suppose I’ll have to find something to give you in return.” The heat of Lavellan’s touch threatened to raise shivers, which he fought to push down for favour of seeming more in-control. Like he wouldn’t melt into Lavellan’s arms at any given moment. It was more of an instinct than a choice. A defense.

“You already gave me a good luck charm, remember?” Lavellan replied. He turned his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Dorian’s neck. He followed it with a small bite that quickly reddened the skin.

“That wasn’t a _courting_ gift,” Dorian objected, forcing down a stuttering breath, “that was… just a thank-you.”

“Seemed more than that at the time.”

“Oh, leave it be, would you?” Lavellan let out a soft giggle against his skin. His breath puffed out over Dorian’s neck in a way that made his hair stand on end in the most wonderful way. “Really, I should buy you new drapes.”

“Feel free to change whatever you’d like. Just know that I’ll be directing all Josephine’s disappointed frowns your way.” Dorian let out an overplayed scoff, tucking his head into the crook of Lavellan’s neck. With warm arms drawn close around him, he could lie there forever, backache be damned.

“Very well,” he sighed, “perhaps something with snakes on it. You _did_ say you liked them. I’m sure I’ve a few tasteful trinkets I could regift.”

“For all your teasing, I am _quite_ confident you’ll find something to suit me.” Lavellan reassured, “even if you don’t, I’ll at least pretend. I’d hate to let down that _massive_ ego of yours.”

“Ah, how romantic.” Dorian drawled, relaxing into his arms. Lavellan let out a hum in reply, already sounding halfway asleep. Dorian might’ve believed it, if not for his wandering hands.


	21. Dull, Clouded Eyes Set on a Lifeless Plateau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Here Lies the Abyss in the storyline.

There seemed to be a blanket of _grim_ cast over the Inquisition the next morning. Sweet though their parting was, Lavellan eventually had to leave his bed to Dorian so that he might check on his council one last time. Then, after an hour’s meeting, they both had their own business to attend. Lavellan busied himself with putting on his armor and saddling up his horse. Dennet didn’t chat much, but he seemed eager enough to have company in the morning chill as he readied the other mounts. Soon enough, everyone was coming out of the woodwork. A small throng of weary soldiers geared up to join the Inquisitor’s procession towards Adamant. It had been Cullen's plan to send out forces in clusters over the past weeks; both to bolster camps and to make the travel to Adamant far less long-winded. It was a final hundred soldiers that would be marching at Lavellan’s back.

He mounted his horse just as his companions came wandering down to meet at the gate. Dennet, with the help of a soldier, handed out the reins to each mount as party members came. Blackwall came up the muddy half-hill from the barn, a pack slung over his shoulder and a polite nod at the ready for his Inquisitor.

“Shit, I’m amazed you’re still _walking_ after the night you had, Hero!” Varric ribbed, voice growing louder with his approach from the other direction. Blackwall fiddled with his saddlebags, letting out a gruff noise.

“It’ll take more than a Rivaini brandy to bring me down.” He replied. Varric only laughed and climbed up onto his saddle.

“What, you lot didn’t save me any?” Lavellan chastised, a smile in his voice.

“Well, from what I heard, I don’t think _you_ needed any brandy to have fun last night, Boots.” Varric shot back, earning a surprised laugh.

“Alright, you caught me. How’d you find out?”

“You two aren’t exactly subtle. But don't worry, I'm sure a few in Orlais don't know yet.” Varric cackled. The rest of the group soon assembled, each of them with full saddlebags and a shared air of exhaustion. A number of labourers and refugees came out of their places to watch as they started their march. With Lavellan at the head, Cullen to his left and Cassandra to his right, he started at a trot through the gate. He sent a brief nod to the remaining two-thirds of his council and carried on down the bridge into the mountain pass.

They were making good time. The procession had made it as far as halfway through the Frostbacks when they stopped to make camp the first night. More and more, the weight of war pressed down upon them. More and more, Lavellan was glad to have spent his last night in a proper bed with Dorian alongside him. He’d barely been spared enough time to have a conversation with him since their march began and he was starting to feel bereft of company. Cassandra rode with him at the front, but she wasn’t especially chatty. Cullen had long since busied himself with commanding the small league of soldiers trailing behind them.

It would be another week and a half of restless sleep, gruel, and saddlesore asses before Adamant was even visible on the horizon. Lavellan spent that night in his tent with the flap barely parted. With every whispering breeze that wrenched it open another inch, he could see the firelight blazing on the watchtowers in the blackness. Bull would still be on watch, along with another five soldiers. No throat-cutters would be making quick work of their camp this night. They were out of striking distance, otherwise, so there was no risk of rocks or fire being flung down upon them. But Lavellan couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched by hidden eyes somewhere in that looming fortress.

He had caught a few precious hours of sleep that night. The desert air was too cold and his blankets too scratchy but it had taken to him regardless. He rose just before the sun, when it was still just a threatening red glare upon the horizon. He did his hair and used a washbasin to try and scrub the dryness from his face and eyes. He leaned on the edges of it, staring down into his vague reflection. It wavered like a mirage with every drop of water that fell down from his own face.

“Ah, Inquisitor. Good to see you again.” Stroud’s familiar drawl snapped Lavellan’s attention from the water. He ran a hand over his wet chin, flicking off the drops that threatened to leak onto his undershirt.

“Warden Stroud. Glad to see you made it.” He greeted in turn, mirroring the courteous military greeting he was given. “And the Champion?”

“Busy with his friend. How is your wound?”

“Sorry?” 

“Your stab wound. When we last met at the ritual tower, you looked rather worse for wear. You seem to be in much better spirits now, at least.” Lavellan nodded haltingly. He could barely recall the ritual tower. Adrenaline or shock had wiped a great deal of it from his mind. The thought of his body so carelessly erasing memories when he those few he had were so precious spiked a cold needle of panic in his spine.

“Right,” he breathed, pushing the feeling down. “Quite alright now, thank you. Have you been doing much in the time we’ve been preparing for the siege?” He asked conversationally, gesturing for the Warden to walk with him back towards his tent. They slipped inside and he went about putting his little armor adornments back on.

“Not as much as I’d hoped.” Stroud replied. “I was able to help some of your soldiers hold down darkspawn in the area. Unfortunately, not so much as to make myself known to the Wardens. It… limited my options.” Lavellan’s fingers worked with a buckle on his thigh guard, sparing a glance up to him.

“Ah, I bet. Pesky lot.” He mused.

“Are you worried?” Stroud asked.

“About what?”

“The siege.”

“Suppose. I’m more concerned about the forces than myself, if I’m honest... whether or not this will turn out to be a pointless waste of life. If we fail.” He trailed off, fingers pausing their ministrations, “...That’ll be a whole ‘nother pot o’ worms. One it’s best not to think about.”

“Fine by me. Blind optimism is usually the best approach.” Stroud replied, folding his arms over his chest. Lavellan shrugged on his jacket and sheathed his sword at his hip.

“Always good to fight alongside like-minded folk.” Lavellan said cheerily, brushing past him to lead the way out of the tent. “Do you know where you’ll be once the fighting starts?”

“If you’ll have me, I would like to fight at your side. I do not know yet where Hawke is going to be.” Stroud trailed along behind him. Lavellan swept through the camp, sending a wave to Varric and the Champion chatting quietly by the fire, and plucked two apples from the stores. He handed one to the warden that came to stand at his side.

“Fine by me. It would be good to have you there, I think. My spymaster told me that some of the warriors might still come to our aid. Doubly so, I bet, if you’re with us.” Lavellan took a hearty crunch of his apple.

“Yes, that is my hope.” Stroud replied. Together, they looked towards the looming figure of Adamant; still a silhouette in the sparse sunlight.

-

Lavellan’s feet hit the stone ground hard with each footfall. His lungs burned, each breath more taxing than the last. Warden-Commander Clarel slipped around a corner and out of sight once more. Just as he darted around it to follow, a large spray of rubble came crashing down. Someone grabbed his collar and yanked him back a step, safely out of the danger zone.

It must’ve been seconds before the dust cleared, but it felt like hours. Lavellan, with Cassandra close at his back, clambered over the messy pile of rubble to race on. The dragon called out nearby, the sound fading as it circled to the other side of the stronghold. They picked off whatever demons they passed, though the Inquisition soldiers mostly had things under control. They turned another corner, now setting upon a narrowing flight of stairs. Lavellan took them two, three at a time. The walls fell away with the height and he could see the tail of the dragon as it circled the fortress once more. He caught a glimpse of the Warden-Commander as she sped down a walkway. She turned.

Lavellan, followed shortly by the rest of the party in little clusters, broke onto the landing. They watched as Clarel beat down the magister with more and more bouts of lightning. He spat up at her and she struck him across the face with her staff. Stroud moved to intervene, followed closely by the Inquisitor. It was then that the dragon decided to land. It shook the ground beneath its monstrous feet, then snatched Clarel up in its teeth. It half-flew, half-hopped to a nearby building, where it shook the Warden-Commander’s limp body in the grip of its jaw. Across the plateau, Erimond struggled to his feet. The sound of a blade unsheathed stole Lavellan’s wide eyes from the dragon.

 _“Bastard!"_ Stroud hissed, stalking towards the magister. Erimond spat a mouthful of blood onto the rock below his feet, then flashed a red-toothed smile. The dragon tossed Clarel from its maw and she landed in a rolling heap behind him. Lavellan couldn’t think fast enough to keep anything from happening. Before he could run forth, the dragon was landing once more. It towered over where Clarel lay. It took one, two thundering steps towards Stroud and the party at his back, an attack rumbling low in its throat.

Then it happened. A flash of light, the dragon careening back with enough force to crumble the far end of the landing as it fell. The ground began to give way in chunks. Lavellan had only enough clarity of mind to run forth and grab Stroud’s arm as the stone crumbled beneath them. The party lingered for him for a moment. It was a moment too long. Stroud tugged in his grip with all the force of gravity as he slipped up. The ground gave way and suddenly, he was falling.

The air sailed past him, stomach crawling into his throat as the world flew past. The familiar burn of the anchor flared, then, and there was another flash. The world seemed to turn around him. He was falling and falling and then suddenly, he couldn’t tell. It was as if a phantom hand had taken hold and now the world spun on his accord. Everything was a blur of green and black. He couldn’t hear anything outside the wailing air past his ears and his own pants of breath. Then it stopped.

He was laying against the ground, head still spinning. How long had he been there? He pushed himself up on scratched palms. The ground beneath him was at once jagged and smooth; an off-black rock that quivered like a mirage in the desert heat if he stared too hard. It seemed to hum under his touch. The air was stiflingly heavy at first until he realized that it was him who wasn’t breathing. Then, as soon as he let the acrid air in, he almost wished he hadn’t. It was heavily acerbic and every breath burned his nose and throat more than the last. He let out a weak cough and that seemed to break the seal of silence.

“Where are we?” Stroud asked, sounding only a few paces away. When Lavellan looked up, he was standing perfectly perpendicular on a rocky wall. That was when he noticed the expansive world outside where he came to. It was the same black-green rock as far as the eye could see; a hazy green fog settled over everything and only grew more dense the farther he looked to the horizon. The world was dim, as if in a cave with a hidden sun. Water--or something like it--cascaded down in rivulets by some unknown gravity, though it came from and flowed to nowhere at all. Droplets landed on Lavellan’s pauldrons, as well as the crown of his head. One landed on his cheek and he swiped it away. It left a warmth in its wake, not at all unlike tears.

“The Fade.” He answered. “I’ve been here before.” In dreams, he would see glimpses. The strange off-green world lit by an undying, invisible sun.

“Nothing like the Maker’s bosom.” Hawke spat. Lavellan wheeled around to see him. He was standing on a parallel surface, upside-down from where the Inquisitor stood.

“Indeed. The Fade was certainly more _enticing_ the last time I was here.” Dorian hummed, holding tight to his staff as he glanced around. “Suppose it’s because we’re here in the flesh.” He was on the same plane as Lavellan. He wandered a few steps closer, tucking himself at the elf’s back.

“Truly?” Cassandra murmured. She stood at the same place as Hawke. Varric, nearest Stroud, just wore a grim frown. The path ahead seemed to be on Lavellan’s plane, thus the others did their best to assemble without hurting themselves. It was easier than expected. As soon as Stroud stepped a foot onto the ‘right’ ground, his body was correcting itself. Hawke was the only one who stumbled when he met the ground.

“Suppose we’d better find a way out of here.” He suggested.

“What, not looking for a fun place to spend retirement?” Varric jabbed.

“Oh, no, certainly. It’s just that it’s Ser Rumpus’s birthday soon and I _can’t_ miss it. You know how he gets when I don’t give him his belly rubs.” Hawke looked to Lavellan, who was studying the world around them with a growing frown. “Inquisitor? Any ideas?”

“I opened a rift to get us here. With luck, I can do the same thing to get us back.” Lavellan pointed towards a large, swirling tear some ways ahead. “Let’s go for the big one. Come on.” He dropped his scratched hand and began his march. The party trailed along behind.


	22. Home, the Aching Burn of a Second Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's go time, baby ;)

She was stark whites and reds against the ever-changing, amorphous reality at her back. There was something haunting in how she stood. Or maybe it was the way she watched. Lavellan wasn’t entirely sure she was real, at first. He thought perhaps she was another mirage; that she would dissipate after a few more steps. But she stayed. She spoke.

“I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion.” The party idled. Cassandra stepped forward, face drawn into a look of awe bogged down by her own innate suspicion.

“Divine Justinia…?” She murmured.

“Cassandra.”

“But… the Conclave. You’re--”

“--Dead.” Justinia finished. “But I am here, just the same as you.”

“What are you? Why are you here?” Lavellan asked, stepping up to Cassandra’s side. Justinia’s distant gaze shifted to him. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse long dead. He froze under her gaze, pushing down an involuntary shudder.

“To answer either question would take time we do not have,” she replied, “you must leave this place. This is the lair of the nightmare you forget upon waking. That which preys upon memories of fear.”

“...Sounds like a pleasant sod.” Hawke murmured.

“So… how do we get out?” Lavellan asked.

“I can show you the way. But first, you must reclaim what it took from you. Your memories, Herald.” She cast her open hand to the path ahead. A distant skittering started.

“Are you sure you want to trust this, Inquisitor?” Hawke asked.

“We don’t have much choice.” Lavellan shot back. Long, articulated limbs extended from every available shadow. As if there were a hundred invisible doors in the fabric of the world, strange spider-like creatures skittered into reality. They were angular and _wrong--_ black, covered in a hundred eyes in all the incorrect places and a hard outer shell that spiders weren’t meant to have. Their legs cracked with every movement; they shouldn’t have been able to twitch, let alone crawl forth at such an incredible speed. Cassandra put herself in front of Lavellan, smashing her shield into the closest nightmare creature. It let out a sound somewhere between a hiss and a crunch as it crumpled under her force.

“Stroud, cover the mages.” Lavellan ordered, unsheathing his blade. He and Cassandra cut their way through a number of the nightmares, backed by whatever magefire Dorian and Hawke could provide. Lavellan brought his sword down through a nightmare’s exoskeleton, spearing it through the middle. It was as if the Fade, endeavoring to create a new being, closed its eyes and drew an impression of a being. The only thing that resembled the real thing was the eight eerie legs. It seemed to shrivel and curl inside its shell as it died. Once he removed his sword, it fizzled to nothing but ash. In its place grew a softly-glowing orb of light. Entranced by its odd, swirling nature, Lavellan leaned in to inspect it.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra snapped, yanking him from his reverie. He looked up just in time to see another nightmare running up on him. A ball of fire stopped it from attacking. A final, hard kick to its odd little body had it rolling away in a tumbleweed-like ball of not-spider. The skittering stopped and Lavellan studied the battlefield. A few more little glowing orbs were smattered around the uneven, wet area.

“What do you think they are?” Cassandra asked, coming to stand at Lavellan’s side and stare suspiciously at the nearest one.

“No idea.” He replied.

“Well, protocol says you should touch it.” Varric piped up, also coming to ogle the strange ball of magic light.

“Ah, yes. Protocol. Great fun, protocol.” Dorian muttered, joining the assembly.

“Back in _my_ day we called it _'_ _being_ reckless _'_ and _'_ _endangering others',”_ Hawke said, “but I suppose that takes too long to say. Go on, touch the funny magic ball. What could go wrong?”

“Could lose a hand.” Lavellan said.

“Could not.” Varric replied.

“I would be _very_ cross.” Dorian quipped. The Inquisitor visibly weighed his options, then murmured a _yeah, alright_ and crouched down. At his back, the rest of the party shuffled a few steps away. Tentatively, he reached out. As soon as his fingers could brush the cool exterior of the glowing ball, his vision was consumed by white.

Twenty-eight years of life, all condensed into one singular moment scarcely a second in length. All of it; his joy, his sorrow, fear, pride--all put on display before the party with scarcely a word of remorse. They were only glimpses at first. A young boy with a scraped knee, then two young lovers sitting together in the moonlight. Despair, then fear, more felt than seen. Cold, lonely nights; watching the full moon from a warm, full bed. Distant boats on golden water. Every victory and every tragedy, returned to him with as much grace as a knife to the chest.

The moments stretched: sunlight filtering through clear river water. Warm eyes, soft smiles and loosely-braided blonde hair with flowers tucked in. Then, wide, toothy grins and sprawling red vallaslin that clashed with the soft blue of layered robes. The short, coarse fur of hunting dogs ran through his fingers. Long, sleepless nights filled with careless laughter and stories that were never finished. In a body that wasn't his own, he picked along a river’s edge for small waterborne plants. Colder eyes ran an uncomfortable shiver along his spine, but a large, calloused hand on his shoulder wicked away the feeling.

Then, the feeling of the sun on his back. The smell of the sea breeze, the distant sound of music and revelry. Hot paving stones under his feet, the taste of a new wine. Dark nights--hands gripping at sleeves--and soft, whispered words between ragged breaths and bedsheets. Then, a new smell. A new feeling. Old, musty books and cold silver in the palm. Brown hair slicked back with so much oil it looked black in the sunlight. Tightly-ruffled hems, uncomfortably cinched leather boots. The hot, wet feeling of freshly-spilt blood against his hands.

A million images, feelings and sounds rushed past him, winding his mind up and snatching the breath from his lungs. The memories grew cold. Sprawling mountains and snow-soaked boots. A letter tucked tight into a cold fist. The images slowed as the unruined sight of the temple came into view in his mind’s eye. A ritual. The Divine, held prostrate in the air by a spell and a pair of tall doors. A question. What was going on? A voice, booming low and heavy, sunk into his shoulders. An orb, glowing in the shape of fingerprints, and then a blinding pain unlike any other.

The world came back into view like he was plummeting back into his boots. He yanked his hand back and then stumbled a step, dizziness wracking his mind. His head thudded like a second heart as these memories, half-faded as he'd left them, forced their way back into place. Words and faces he had searched for _months_ to find were suddenly there, as if they’d never left. His past. His name. His family. They were all there. They wriggled in, bending around where his psyche had adjusted to those empty spaces. Through the pain was relief; like seeing the face of an old friend or slipping into a familiar bed. It was comfortable. Warm.

He clapped a hand to his forehead and used the sum of his strength to stay on his feet and force down the acid climbing into his throat. Someone spoke and he found himself replying, even though it felt as though his consciousness was somewhere at the back of his mind. Watching. Was this what possession felt like? Tunnel vision, feeling like a passenger in his own skin? Someone's hand on his shoulder steadied him.

“...Still got his arm, though, right?” Hawke piped up. Face wound tight, Lavellan let out a grunt in reply. With some meager help, he stumbled to his feet, not realizing he was off them in the first place.

“That--that was the Divine,” Cassandra gasped, reeling from the shared vision. The gaze of the party turned to the spirit standing halcyon a few paces from them. “So she…?”

“...Died.” Lavellan finished, cocking his head as he looked the spirit over. She stayed silent. “Are you… her memory?”

“Perhaps.” She replied evenly. “Regardless of what you might call me, you now know the events which led to your first visit to this place.” Lavellan nodded hesitantly.

“We should keep moving.” He replied.

-

The Fade was starting to lose its novelty. After the party passed the same tiny campfire three times without taking any turns, Lavellan let out a frustrated sound and marched off the path. He picked through rubbish and under peculiarly-placed rocks, searching out keepsakes. He plucked up a bouquet of faded flowers and set them inside a vase. The air seemed to shift. They set off down the same path once more, though it became a new place this time. Now, when they passed a discarded doll or a small trinket, Lavellan endeavored to pick it up the first time round.

 _"We have a visitor,"_ a disembodied voice announced. Already wary of the hours spent in the gloomy, odd world, the party drew their weapons. As expected, little nightmares came shuffling out of dark corners, honed in on the group.

"We get our own narrator. Isn't that charming?" Hawke grumbled, punctuating the question with a _whap_ of his staff. One of the nightmares crunched beneath it. After the first four or five, a rhythm was established. Varric and the mages would thin out the crowds, then the warriors would pick off those remaining before they drew too close.

 _"This foolish little boy seeks to recover the fear I kindly lifted from him."_ This time--unlike last--the nightmares didn’t seem to stop. Lavellan fought to tune out the voice, which, at once booming in the air around him, also seemed to fill up his ears like a whisper.

“Any brilliant ideas?” Lavellan called, slashing at one of the nightmares before whirling around to kick away another nipping at his heels. Dorian and Hawke concentrated their fire on a cluster, sending it up in a ball of white-hot, very _noisy_ flame.

 _"Oh, but those memories were so delicious. No better treat than a man who has lived his entire life in such childish fear and shame."_ Lavellan, fitfully trying to tune out the noise, started to shake his head. His memories were still dreary and slow to come to the forefront, but he knew enough for the demon's taunting to bring on some level of dark embarrassment. He skewered a nightmare, moving a bit more desperately.

“Wait!” Hawke called over the booming voice, breathless, “I’ve a plan.” He gestured for the warriors to fall back to their little cluster. Once they were in close, Hawke held out his palm to an approaching nightmare.

 _"The mark you bear is one that was earned,"_ The demon continued, _"And the pain?"_

“Halt!” Hawke commanded, voice booming with the willpower he funneled into it. “All of you, stop! You are not permitted to attack.” For a few moments, the nightmares pressed on.

 _"The pain is recompense and you know it."_ Before Varric could rib the Champion one--possibly final--time, the nightmares slowed to a stop. As if considering his command, they idled, clicking lowly. There were a few tense moments where the only sound was the low rumble of the Fade and the party’s heaving breaths. Then, making their choice, the nightmares turned and descended once more into nothing. Hawke let out a breathless laugh.

“I’m _so_ glad that worked.” He puffed, turning his staff in his hand. “Let’s press on, shall we?”

“Yes. Let’s.” Lavellan replied stiffly, moving back to point. He fought to keep his eyes forward and ignore the passing glances. The party, as much as it endeavored to pretend they hadn't heard the demon's words, had the seed of concern already planted.

"Did it speak of the Anchor...?" Cassandra asked, her voice low and concerned. Lavellan's jaw fixed tight and he shot her a sharp look. It was a concerning rarity.

"No. Leave it be." He ordered. The distant glow of the Divine, where she’d stopped to hover after revealing herself, was growing nearer. The closer they came, the clearer it was that she was working on… some sort of barrier? The cry of an approaching Despair told them it wouldn’t be done easily.


	23. A Hollowed Chest, Carved Out by Hand to be Filled Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> u ever have a crisis and impulse cut your own bangs?

The true nightmare responsible for their entire foray through the unruly landscape of the fade fell away with a deafening shriek. Stroud flicked some of its essence from his blade with a sneer.

“So it’s done.” He said.

“To the rift, then.” Hawke insisted. As he did, one large, haired limb stomped down into the path between them and their target. It shook the ground with its force and the giant arachnid it belonged to let out a loud clicking of its mandibles.

“Go, now!” Lavellan ordered, shooing the party towards the rift as he worked a fire spell between his hands. He launched it at one of the giant spider’s eyes, catching it off-guard for a fleeting moment. The party still hesitated. Lavellan jabbed a pointed finger towards the temporarily cleared path. “That’s an order.” He hissed. Quickly, if clearly begrudgingly, Cassandra grabbed both Dorian and Varric’s arms and hauled them towards the rift. Hawke stood his ground, also lighting up a fire spell.

“That means you two, as well. I can cover you.” Lavellan ordered.

“Absolutely bloody not.” Hawke snapped back, “your Worship.” He tacked on. Still the three of them raced on together as the spider’s massive legs moved, allowing it to turn, still in a pained haze. They faltered collectively near the rift, each sparing the same Oh-No-You-Don’t look to one another.

“Inquisitor, _please,_ _”_ Stroud hissed, hand hovering over his blade. “The Wardens caused this. A Warden must end it.”

 _“No,”_ Hawke snipped, “A _Warden_ must guide those who remain. Make this _right.”_

 _“Maker!”_ Lavellan spat, “who the fuck put two would-be martyrs on my side? _Neither_ of you is dying here.” It felt like a lie even before it passed his lips. The spider would recover soon, and there was no way he could seal the rift with it trying to force its way through. And if it did? Hawke’s expression turned grim.

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor,” he murmured, “my part of this story is over. If this is the abyss, I’ll face it head-on.” Before Lavellan could protest, Hawke was manhandling both of them through the rift. He gave Stroud a hard shove, making him fall through. Lavellan caught Hawke’s arm and they paused. The thundering steps of the spider were growing more regular as it recovered itself.

“Say goodbye to Varric for me.” He requested, voice giving way to breathless grief. Lavellan searched his face. Fear. There was fear in his eyes, behind that thin veil of resignation. The fear of a man who was doing this not for glory or memory, but because he knew he must. Because no one else would. Lavellan squared his jaw, seeing a glimpse of himself he didn't wish to. He gave him one firm nod before jumping through the rift. Protesting would only mean two bodies of stubborn men would never be recovered.

He landed in an awkward, clumsy heap. Stroud still stood near the rift, having just collected himself. He helped to haul Lavellan to his feet. It took a moment, but Lavellan braced himself and raised his hand to close the rift. It snapped shut and the air stilled. Hawke was gone.

“It’s the Inquisitor!” Someone shouted. Soldiers crowded the central area, all cheering with their victory. Lavellan leaned hard on Stroud, the both of them looking at a loss. Desolate. Nowhere near as elated for the trouble to be over as the forces. The rest of the party strong-armed their way through the crowd.

“Where…?” Varric asked, pushing to be nearer to the two of them. Wide-eyed, he searched Lavellan’s face for answers. Lavellan could only meet his eyes for a second before he had to cast them to the ground. He gave a single, mute shake of his head and Varric shrunk. He nodded, lips parted in a breathless _oh_ that never gained a voice. He pushed his way through the crowd to get out once more. Lavellan could only watch him go, lips pulled into a hard wince. Distantly, he was aware that someone was asking him about what would become of the Wardens. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stood from where he leaned onto Stroud’s shoulder.

“You will serve the Inquisition, with Warden Stroud to guide you.” He said, lips moving on their own accord. The day was already nipping at his heels and his legs started to wobble. There were unsure rumours, but he offered a tight-lipped smile of confidence which turned out a bit more like a wince. He gave Stroud a stiff nod and took an uneasy step off the platform they had landed upon. If Cassandra and Dorian disapproved, they held their tongues for his benefit. They simply walked him, a stern grip on either shoulder, through the fortress. He was like a ghost all the way through.

-

Lavellan sat, legs crossed under him, atop his bedroll. He had been too caught up in his thoughts to pitch into the weakly-joking rabble of the party as they traveled back towards camp. The procession started a scant few strides behind him, but they felt a world away. As out of reach as the birds calling, unseen, from behind the foothills. The wind tugged through his hair and it called his attention. It felt too hot on his scalp. Heavy. Another reminder.

He had dismounted his horse before it had come to a full stop and his ankle still ached from it. He hadn't the presence of mind nor the overwhelming desire to heal it. In a way, it was like a silly little payment. That he should suffer for the choice he'd made.

He’d long since been staring into the middle-distance as people moved around him. Someone had come by to check his injuries, Cullen had stopped by to give him reports and a soldier had set down a plate of food on the floor near him. Still, he stayed where he was. When finally it felt as though he could be alone, with no more appointments to be forced upon him, he relaxed. He let his eyes close and a long, soothing breath pass through his lungs.

He had dreamed, some nights--when he stared up at the worn slat ceiling in Haven--that if he ever recovered his memories, he would be whole. All the answers would be had and he could finally feel happy; unburdened by what-ifs. But these answers only raised dread. The freedom was just another mirage: now, he was faced with the lie he had wrapped himself up in.

He was a criminal and a cheat, now wearing the borrowed robes of a philanthropist. Would he play the hero, telling the truth now that it was available to him, and alienate himself? Or would he play the liar, pretending he was not privy to this information which fell into his lap? Continue his charade as a religious idol, if a bit heretical, and toss out all that came before? Claim: _people change,_ and move on, despite how hypocritical it felt?

_Why did the Champion have to die in his place?_

He didn't have an answer to that one, yet. He supposed that, at any given point, someone would know. They would find out. It didn’t matter whether it was in three days or thirty years; someone would discover his history and, his image, should he lie, would be tarnished. But then, what elf in human history had ever had an _image_ worth tarnishing? Was it even worth admitting to? And then, what business was it of theirs--everyone else--to judge him for his past?

It was his job to change, wasn't it? To do the things others would rather pretend weren’t needed? So, to them, he could be the example. The criminal working to repent, whether everyone knew it or not. Perhaps, should it become a scandal, they could work the _divine forgiveness_ angle. It would do better than to let people make a fuss of things. Then, only _he_ needed to know the true motivation for his repentance: even death had to be earned. The Fade had proved that to him.

With his memories came the peculiar knowledge of… everything. All that he had laid awake at night wondering about was now well within his grasp. He pored over all these new thoughts he had, and now more than ever--which he knew, given his recollection of prior experience--he could find the disconnect between _himself_ and his _experience._ He could recall the years before the Conclave with relative ease. But recollection didn’t make them feel any more true. The world kept moving around him, as it always had, and he was left grappling for anything to call his own.

He supposed that, like Herald had been, _Syrillon_ was now truly a name he had come to outgrow. It represented who he had been before Corypheus. Now, although he had not originally intended it when he first discovered it all those months ago, Lavellan was his true name. The one which fit who he was, as well as who he intended to be. It was a title. A reminder. A relic from his prior life, and that which had shaped him. But that elven influence was now only a stitch in the tapestry that was _Inquisitor_ Lavellan. Or perhaps it was just an excuse to shed his past, now that he had a hold on it. Now that the context he'd wanted was well in hand, along with his own disgust.

It would be so _easy_ to just be Lavellan. To pretend.

The tent flap now laid closed and thus, the rest of the rabble stayed blocked from his mind. He could still hear all the banter, of course, but it was far from him. The specifics of who-said-what and you-owe-me-this were faded. It provided a brief moment of stillness to his mind. He'd been stripped of his arm guards and boots. They now laid in a rough pile beside his bedroll. He'd peeled away each layer until there was nothing else keeping him together and then struggled out of his shirt to make up for the anxious heat of his scalp. His hands already itched to be put to work. He needed to do something--anything--for some sort of control. The Champion had been his choice, but had he really? Did he truly have _any_ say over these things he was put through?

With his memories came the recollection of his clan’s tradition, as well as the presence of mind to abide by them. Cracking one eye open, then the other, he glanced around his tent. There was a small knife tucked onto the side of his dinner plate. Sharp, but crude. He plucked it up. As an afterthought, he unsheathed his blade and leaned it up against the nearest chest to act as a mirror. It was too heavy and too awkward for him to use without scalping himself, so he'd be settling for what he had readily available. He watched himself in the reflection, feeling somewhat less like a stranger in his own skin. That was a victory, at least. He raised his hands, one gripping his fringe just above the tie that held it. The other raised the knife up to the hair. The wooden hilt pressed at an odd angle into his palm. He gripped it a bit tighter, squaring his jaw. Then he began to saw through.

Twenty-eight years of life, and he had only ever cut his hair twice before. He could recall that, now. After his harrowing, then when he left home for the first time. It had been eight years, and it showed in its length. The knife caught, tugging his scalp occasionally. He wound his face up with the sharp pain of it, but he was nearly through. The large clump of hair gave way and he looked down at it once it was free. He laid it down carefully, like an old friend, and took the tie from the remaining half-inch of hair that fell past it. It looked silly with all the rest of his hair still at the same length, but he could work his way through.

“Lavellan?” Someone called. The opening of his tent shifted and Dorian stepped in, eyes fixed on something in his hand. When he looked up, his expression was a mix of horror and confusion. He stuttered in his step. “Oh, dear. It appears Corypheus has already struck back against us. I _knew_ he would be keen on it.” He teased, closing the flap behind himself.

“Very funny.” Lavellan replied, not bothering to hide what he’d done, even as Dorian geared up for another joke. Shame still rose in his chest like bile, even knowing the Altus wouldn't understand the gravity of things.

“Really, you should warn people before you have a breakdown and chop off all your hair.” He scoffed. He came to crouch at his side, setting down the bottle of nondescript spirit he’d acquired. “I could’ve prepared. Mentally, I mean.”

“Mm-hmm.” Lavellan grunted.

“Go on, then. I can get the back. Wouldn’t do to have you looking like a _complete_ mess, would it?” Lavellan offered up the blade and Dorian let out a mortified chuckle. “You _do_ know you could’ve sourced scissors? I know I complain, but your camp isn’t _that_ uncivilized.” He snatched the blade from his grasp and made a show of tossing it away.

“You’ll need to go get that.” Lavellan muttered matter-of-factly.

“Oh, whatever. I’m going to get scissors. Don’t do anything embarrassingly destructive while I’m gone, would you?” Dorian climbed to his feet and strutted out just as quickly as he’d come. Lavellan was left to silence. His eyes, then hands, wandered to the alcohol that had been left. He uncorked it and gave it a tentative sniff. It practically burned the hair out of his nose. Perfect. He gave a hearty swig that burned its way down. He was left with a peculiar tingling numbness in his tongue and the aftertaste of liquorice.

“I’m back. You didn’t ignore my request and chop off a limb, did you?” Dorian greeted, stepping back into the tent after a scant minute, scissors twirling around one finger.

“No.” Lavellan grunted, voice hoarse from the strong spirit.

“Well, that’s a relief.” Dorian settled onto his knees at Lavellan’s back and got to work. He snipped here and there, combing through with his fingers every so often. He would hold small sections between his index and middle finger before cutting, doing his damnedest to keep Lavellan from turning out looking like a country bumpkin. Or, perhaps worse, Sera.

“Are you... alright?” He asked conversationally, his voice a tinge far-away as he worked. Lavellan took another swig from the bottle.

“Hungry.” He answered shortly.

“There's an easy fix for that,” Dorian replied making a loose gesture for the now cold food set on the ground not far, like an offering. His hand moved back to its task within another second.

"No," Lavellan murmured, "not that." They fell to silence once more. With every chunk of hair shed, he felt more and more light. Like some of those sights and smells he wished he hadn’t recovered were lost along with them.

Satisfied with the back, Dorian raised to a kneel and worked at Lavellan’s fringe. He paused when he noticed Lavellan studying the bottle in his reflection. He laid his hand on the elf’s crown, ruffling his newly puffy hair. He sank into his touch and Dorian was careful to keep the point of the scissors angled _away_ from the other man's head.

“For the record,” he murmured, feeling he should lower his voice as soon as Lavellan’s eyes fluttered closed. “I’m just glad you made it out. Amazed, really.”

“Did it seem so impossible?” Lavellan asked in a rumble.

“Everything you do seems impossible. It’s just…” He trailed off and Lavellan’s eyes opened. He tilted his head back far enough to see Dorian’s face. He was looking away, face drawn into a pensive frown. “...I’m waiting for the day when your incredible luck finally runs out.”

“Don't jinx it. I've not got much else to work off of.” Dorian just let out a long sigh and made him tilt his head forward so he could get back to work.

“Just…” Dorian started, cutting himself off with a few snips of the scissors, “...don’t do that again. You sent me ahead and then didn’t follow. Just like at Haven.”

“Dorian, I--”

“Promise me.” Sure, Lavellan had survived both times. But it was close. Too close. "Promise me you won't." Lavellan went quiet for a few moments. His hand searched out Dorian’s knee behind him, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Promise.” He replied.

“...You made quite a mess of things.” Dorian grumbled, rearranging a few tufts of Lavellan’s hair. He put the finishing snips on it, deeming it acceptable. He didn’t look like a sad beggar, anyway. He drew away and almost at once, Lavellan was running his own hands through it, messing up all his hard work. He rose to his feet and shook off all the little strands of cut hairs.

“What do you think?” Lavellan asked, raising his blade to study his reflection. He ran a hand through the shorter strands, looking a bit puzzled by it all.

“Very charming. I am, of course, incredibly biased.”

“If I wanted an honest opinion, I wouldn’t have asked.” Lavellan replied, still messing around with his fringe. He settled for ruffling it and leaving it how it landed, turning his attention to sheathing his sword. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dorian piped up, watching him now try to corral the many scraps of hair to one untidy pile, “why did you do it?” Lavellan spared him only a passing glance before returning to his preoccupation.

“It’s tradition.” He answered shortly, eyes on the floor and the hair atop it.

“So I don't have to worry about you snapping and helping some poor soldier to accomplish foot-in-mouth literally? Or some such gruesome nonsense.”

“No.” Lavellan said, knowing he wasn't feeling quite as calm and stable as the quick reply might've implied. As much as Dorian liked to pretend he wasn't, he was a _terrible_ worrier. In this instance, worrying would only mean suffering twice. For either of them.

“Mm. Still, I can hang around. If you… would like that.” Lavellan handed him the bottle of spirits in a loose grip.

“Without a doubt.” He agreed. Something new--or, perhaps, very old--told him to not be so wanton. His want overpowered it. He needed a distraction, or something like it, to get his mind off his endless string of cynicisms.


	24. An Orchid and a Lotus, Both in Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one month special update! ;)

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He wasn’t even sure what had happened in the first place. Lavellan had been… peculiar. He would hide his gaze; glance away each time their eyes met. He would hang around the others--Cassandra and Bull most of all, it seemed--but even since returning to Skyhold, he had hardly given Dorian a passing glance. It felt rather like the cold shoulder, but he didn’t know what for. He told himself that it was a sign that this, what they’d had--a whirlwind romance, for lack of a better term--was coming to its inevitable conclusion. Things were ending, as he knew they would.

But then, perhaps it was pride. Pride, which kept him wondering what about himself was the final straw. Pride that demanded to know what it was that drove Lavellan away. It was also pride that kept him from asking outright. Pride demanded he keep his aloof veneer even when his heart screamed to know why he was being cast aside _now,_ of all times.

Perhaps he’d simply misstepped. He could hardly recall the specifics of their night spent drinking together after Adamant. His memory consisted of tipsy, stifled laughter, too much drink and some playful rolling-round in the tent throughout the night. If he thought hard, he could recall the whispers. The taste of liquorice on Lavellan's tongue. Warm hands sliding over his stomach and then traipsing beneath the hem of his trousers. That, and the wicked hangover he sported the next morning.

Maybe he’d said or done something that night which Lavellan hadn't liked. He wasn't _entirely_ sure just how far they went, but... he was almost certain they'd both passed out before getting up to anything more than using hands. Perhaps he had said something? Unease roiled at the mere thought of his more traitorous, shitfaced self spilling his sober mind's secrets. But… Lavellan was always quite forthcoming about that sort of thing; feelings, and the like. If he'd suddenly proposed a timeshare in Antiva, Lavellan would've been ribbing him over it rather than avoiding him completely.

It was after one of Josephine’s little classes on _appropriate small-talk_ in preparation for Halamshiral that Dorian made his move. He felt rather like a college student all over again; trying to catch up with someone after the end of class, half-dashing through a throng of other ‘students’ with a book under his arm. Only differences being, these other students were more unwashed and this book was rather more lusty than the works of _Adeodatus._ In his slipping around other people to catch up to the Inquisitor, Sera’s knowing look was the only one he caught, which he pointedly ignored.

“Lavellan.” He called, within a few strides of him. He tried to push down the unease that threatened to rise with how the other man tensed. Still, the elf put on a pleasant smile as he turned to face him.

“Dorian. What can I do for you?” Lavellan replied evenly.

“A chat. In private.” He said, half-demanding. Lavellan considered it for a moment, then jerked his head towards a door off the walkway.

The basement--or perhaps it was a cellar?--was rife with dust and cobwebs. Lavellan led the way through it as if he knew the place like the back of his hand, despite how abandoned it seemed. He paused in one doorway to chat with an unseen stranger for a passing moment. Once they picked up again, Dorian found that it had been the kitchen staff, laboring diligently, whom Lavellan had greeted. Ahead, Lavellan opened another door and led Dorian into a small, equally dusty room.

“So.” Lavellan said. It was a library he’d brought them to. Old and cobweb-ridden, to be sure, but Dorian hadn’t seen it before. Interesting! Perhaps busying himself with picking through books would actually _do_ something other than provide a natural way for him to avert his eyes if things got too uncomfortable. Lavellan pulled out the dust-stained reading chair at the desk, sitting daintily upon the edge of it.

“So.” Dorian repeated. “I wanted to lodge a complaint with you. Your library is a shocking travesty. How you’ve accumulated so many copies of the Malefica Imperio is beyond me. How you _also_ had each in a different section is even more mind-boggling; it’s like people just tuck the books wherever they please.” He lamented, slipping a tome off the shelf and popping it open. Each page was well-worn, with inky drawings of flowers and animals in the margins.

“Really? That’s just terrible.” Lavellan replied, sounding distracted.

“Quite. I’ve had an abundance of free time without you coming around, you see. I’ve reorganized half the library already. My half, naturally, as it’s the more important one.” _Why haven’t you been around? You’re my favourite distraction._ Lavellan was silent in the face of the implied question and Dorian fought to keep his eyes on the page.

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan said. Dorian could almost _hear_ the furrow in his brows. “I should’ve just come to talk.” He cut himself off. Dorian finally looked up. Lavellan was tracing one of the pages of the tome on the desk, a guilty frown on his lips.

“Adamant… was a lot. For everyone.” Dorian closed the book in his hand and meandered a few steps closer, lips pulled into a frown. So… that was all? Lavellan just needed time alone?

“I see.” He said, a bit lamely. It wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. Lavellan’s far-away frown only made him feel foolish. He pushed it down to come lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He cared for him, of course, and he would stay so long as Lavellan would have him. But he was his friend, first and foremost.

“I’ve a bottle of Orlesian brandy in my trunk.” He offered. Lavellan glanced up at him, flashing a pained-looking smile as he sank into his touch.

-

Lavellan took a drink of the brandy from his cup; one of the wide-mouthed red wine glasses Dorian kept in his chambers. No doubt, news of the evil Tevinter magister _also_ drinking his liquors out of the wrong glasses (atop all the presumed evils he would also be responsible for) would cause _quite_ a stir at court. At least Lavellan didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he seemed preoccupied with staring at the rim of the glass as Dorian read aloud one of the books on Orlesian history Josephine had recommended.

“I need to tell you something.” Lavellan interrupted between passages. Dorian glanced up, finger paused right where he’d stopped.

“Of course.” He replied, trying to sound lighthearted even as Lavellan looked more and more wracked with guilt.

“I… wanted to explain how I came to be here. As well as some of the things that came with my memories when we were in the Fade.” He set the book down and shuffled on his knees to sit a bit closer. Dorian squeezed his arm in a lame attempt to comfort him. Lavellan only lifted his glass to take another long drink of his sweet brandy.

“Well, you already know the gritty details of my background.” Dorian said, hoping it made Lavellan cringe less than he did.

“Is that to say that this is a long time coming?” Lavellan asked, forcing a weak smile. Dorian’s hand moved to his shoulder.

“More that you’ll be in good company.” He replied, tilting his head and offering a smile to Lavellan’s profile. “As long as your past is as terrible as you’re making it out to be.” He earned a humourless laugh.

“Mm. Suppose I’ll have to give you all the gritty details, then.”

“I suppose so.” Dorian leaned for his bedside, snatching up the bottle of brandy and waving it to offer more. Lavellan shook his head, so he filled his own glass before replacing the bottle.

“Well… I _am_ Dalish. Though I suppose there wasn’t much doubt. I was taken in by clan Lavellan as a child. Do you remember when I met my father?” Dorian made a hum in agreement.

“Yes, and the church that was dustier than some of the tombs you’ve desecrated.” He said between sips.

“Quite. He's the Keeper to the clan. I’ll spare you most of the tragic details of my childhood. But it… well, the clan was home. They treated me as one of their own, and I was happy. Really happy.” Lavellan let out a long, half-wistful sigh. “Trouble was, my mother wasn’t especially fond of me. She’d never wanted to keep me in the first place, you see. A real purist. Thought that letting in some little elf of dubious origin would be bad for their reputation.”

“Jokes on her, then, I suppose.” Dorian hummed, matter-of-fact. Lavellan let out a more real laugh that shook a breath of relief from him. Still, his eyes were downcast, fixed on the deep amber drink between his hands.

“She made things tense. Claimed all sorts of nasty things about me, and I could tell it was breaking the family down. So I left. I moved to Rivain and spent a few months slumming it between community homes. Eventually wound up in Antiva when I got sick of eating bread for every meal.” Lavellan traced the rim of his glass with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ve heard about Rivain. Seems an... interesting place. Did you meet any pirates?” Dorian asked, trying to keep Lavellan’s grim, pensive look from traipsing too far across his face.

“Plenty. Spent a few months on a ship, in fact, but it’s not for me. The sea water really gets into everything and I can’t _stand_ having wet feet in my boots. Really, it’s the worst feeling in the world.” Lavellan said, halfway to a chuckle. “Rivain’s a beautiful place. I’d like to go back someday.” His brows furrowed. “Now, where was I…?”

“Antiva. Apologies, I’ll refrain from getting you off-track.”

“Oh, don’t you dare.” Lavellan warned, bumping shoulders with him. His smile fell an inch as he got back into the story. “I became a jack-of-all-trades while I was there. For the first two years or so, I was a mercenary, then a dock worker, then a courier. Tried my hand as an escort. Eventually, fate decreed that I… do that full-time.”

“That would explain a few of the little glimpses I saw.” Dorian said, still endeavoring to keep his tone light. Free of either pity or judgement until he could glean what Lavellan needed.

“Right.” He murmured. “Hardly the most dangerous work I got up to, but _Maker,_ that might’ve very well been the lowest point in my life. A hundred lonely days did more to break my spirit than something like Haven ever could.” His voice broke to a whisper, as if ashamed to have admitted it. Dorian gave into an intrusive thought that instructed him to take his hand. Lavellan cleared his throat, shaking off whatever fugue his admission had brought on.

“Joined a thieves’ guild not long after, doing the same sort of thing. Talking nobles out of their drawers and casing up their mansions while I did.” He sank with a long sigh. “It was almost my third year in Antiva when I met a chap that offered to buy me out. Had nothing else going for me, so I agreed. Spent the next three years doing a would-be merchant prince’s dirty work.” He gave a weak shrug.

“And the Conclave…?” Dorian asked, wishing he hadn’t as soon as he said it. Lavellan’s hand shifted to squeeze his back.

“My brother talked me into it. I reckon he owes me, now. Maybe I could get him to send me some wine to make up for it.” Lavellan worried his lower lips in his teeth. “Anyway. All this just to say that I… was afraid. Flustered, maybe. That’s why I avoided you.”

“Afraid?” Dorian repeated. “Don’t tell me. Your prior experience told you that I’m _too_ charming for my own good and you simply couldn’t handle it.” He sounded more bitter than he ever intended. Lavellan fixed him with a stern frown that had him snapping his lips shut before he could say anything else inflammatory. Once he spoke, he wasn’t sure if it was actually directed _at_ him.

“You absolutely _confound_ me, Dorian Pavus. I’d never had a proper relationship when I was at home. Once I was in Antiva," he shrugged limply, "well, let's just say people weren't looking to court a scrawny, dirt-poor Dalish.” He turned his half-empty glass in his hand. “I suddenly woke to find I was committed but I couldn’t bear to break things off. I was quite out of my depth.”

Lavellan was looking at him more fully, now, and he even had a smile to boot. A small one, yes, but it was a smile nonetheless. Both the use of the word _committed_ and the idea of being confounded over pleased Dorian more than it had any right to. 

“I was at a loss for what to do with myself, let alone how to talk to you about it.”

“Well, seems you managed well enough on that front.” Dorian replied dryly. It spared his pride better to be facetious than to admit that he knew too well what being out of his depth felt like.

“Evidently.” Lavellan hummed, draining his glass. “I’m sorry again. You deserve better than to have been hidden from like a little, boyish coward.”

“I should say so.” Dorian replied, a flippant smile crossing his lips, “it takes a great deal of work to look like this and you _squandered_ it. The nerve.” Lavellan let out a long-suffering sigh and set his glass aside.

“I’ll just have to make it up.” He replied, pressing a brandy-flavoured kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. He was already trailing open-mouthed kisses along Dorian’s jaw when he paused, scolded by a quiet tsking, so that Dorian could finish his own brandy and set the glass on his nightstand. With his hands now free, they took up wandering which encouraged Lavellan to continue in his ministrations.

“Thank you,” Lavellan murmured between kisses, “for holding me to this. I’ll be better for you.”

“Well, does that mean that I’ll miss out on this wonderful repayment? If so, I may have to decline the offer.” Lavellan caught a bit of skin between his teeth in a sharp nip that he quickly soothed with another kiss.

“If that’s what you’re looking for, my dear, you only need to ask.” He replied. It would be enough, for now. To kiss away the doubts and the worries still lingering at the back of his mind. He was allowed his private worries, wasn't he? So, just this once.


	25. Unbidden but Unwanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through, yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been Ruff lately with my clinically approved Summertime Sadness and I think we could all use a nice little distraction, right? So here's a bonus-bonus update.

The upcoming Winter Palace masquerade had everyone in varying states of panic. Vivienne seemed to be the only one in all of Skyhold who wasn’t at least a _little_ high-strung about the event. Lavellan had been lying to himself quite expertly that it would all go fine and he had nothing to worry about. He endeavored to continue his personal charade even though Leliana and Cullen were quick to remind him of everything that could go wrong and then, consequently, plunge Thedas into chaos. Drinking in his chambers and retconning his own memories only got him so far. Eventually, he would have to accept the inevitable risk of their upcoming appointment.

It was Cullen who had suggested sparring as a way to work off the stress. Josephine had warned them both plainly that any blows to the face were off-limits, even with another full month to go until the ball. She simply would _not_ risk one of them sporting a black eye or a gash in their finery. Lavellan and his commander were on their way to the training yard, both in their tunic and trousers and ready to take a beating regardless.

“I don’t want you to pull any hits.” Lavellan instructed, gesturing along as the two of them descended the stairs to the yard. Passing the equipment stand, Cullen took up a dulled sword and a shield. Lavellan went for a stave.

“No?” Cullen asked in a chuckle, “I do hope you have an explanation prepared for any injury to the head, Inquisitor.”

“Naturally.” Lavellan tittered. He'd come up with something, should the need arise.

They entered a small sparring circle and stood opposite one another, weapons raised. They side-stepped in a small circle, easing into the combat. Then, Cullen made a wide swing for him which Lavellan was forced to evade. He followed through with another strike, shield raised. Lavellan narrowly ducked away before he landed a hit that snapped hard across Cullen's leg. Stiff wood cracking against his unguarded shin, he let out a hiss and hopped a step away.

“I see _you’re_ not holding back.” Cullen grunted.

“I’ve got to keep you motivated, no?” Lavellan replied, smiling breathlessly and squinting in the bright sunlight. They circled one another, keeping close to the perimeter of the marked circle. Lavellan faced the fortress’s main building, now, and the sun was no longer shining in his face. Cullen swung for him once more, this time in a downwards strike. Lavellan blocked it with the midsection of his stave rather than evading.

A glint on one of the walkways above caught his eye. Up over Cullen’s shoulder, with more than a passing glance, he could already tell it was Dorian. A smile--undeterred even with his and the commander’s struggle--crossed his face. At the distance, he could see a similar expression, then a tilt of the head. The loss of the training sword pushing against his stave caught him off-guard. When Cullen bashed his shield at him, he had no time to react. It hit him square in the face and he could only listen as his nose cracked under the impact.

Then he was on his backside, stave dropped, with one hand clutching at his freely-bleeding nose. A series of pain-filled curses spilled from him before he even realized he was speaking. There was a clatter as Cullen dropped his shield and moved, wide-eyed with horror, to his side.

“Maker! I’m so sorry, I should have--”

“That was a _good_ shield bash,” Lavellan complimented, voice wavering from the pain. Little, involuntary tears pricked at his eyes and he fought to stand with some help. “Really, I’m impressed, don’t let the crying fool you.” He implored. Cullen let out an uneasy laugh.

“Right. Thank you, Inquisitor. I’ll get you to the infirmary.”

“Much appreciated.” His backside was already growing sore from his tumble. Cullen was a welcome help as he hobbled along, one hand barely containing the blood that still dribbled from his injured nose. He kept close, half-hiding the injured Inquisitor from view as they passed onlookers; _to keep up appearances,_ he would have explained, should anyone ask. The truth was closer to him hiding away his own embarrassment.

They passed Sera, who, at first, was minding her own business. Upon seeing the way the commander turned to block her view, she paused, then backtracked to follow them.

“Sera, this isn’t the time.” Cullen said; voice holding a sharp, dismissive edge. She ducked around Lavellan’s other side instead. Eyes wide, she let out a surprised guffaw, then a disgusted sound as she saw the blood leaking out between his fingers.

“Awh, snotty Inquisitor,” she goaded, then cut herself off with a giggle, “not like that, yeah? Should save a little for her Imperial Bigness, or whatever.” She waggled her finger, as if to scold Lavellan for bleeding all over the ground she didn't own.

“Yeah, will do.” Lavellan said, sounding more nasally by the second.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra called. Cullen barely let out a breath of a curse before she was rushing over. Sera snuck off as soon as Cassandra invited herself to the party.

“It’s like this courtyard is the busiest place in Thedas.”

“Why is it that you lot normally stand around _so_ stuffily and I have to go to _you?_ ” Lavellan grumbled, allowing the Seeker to get a glimpse of his injury as she approached, grabby hands bracing his shoulder. “This is so much more courteous. Aren’t I supposed to be important? It takes copious amounts of blood to pay _me_ a visit. Pah!” He took the opportunity of letting his nose run freely to flick some of the blood from his hand. It must’ve not been too bad--or it was _very_ bad, and she was putting on a relaxed face--because Cassandra gave him a bit of room. She still tagged along at Lavellan’s side the rest of the short walk to the infirmary.

“What’d’ya guys think? ‘S my shirt ruined?” Lavellan drawled, allowing himself to be sat on a cot.

“Probably.” Cassandra replied. The healer came quickly to his side with a fistful of cloth for him to hold under his nose instead of his messy open hand. He cleaned and applied a salve to his bridge and Lavellan was left to kick his feet while he was fussed over. Both warriors still lingered at his bedside. He’d only just sat down but the tense edge of being _idle_ was starting to creep back.

“Cassandra, why don’t you go spar with Cullen? I’d hate for him to stop on my account.” Cullen opened his mouth, looking ready to object.

“Perhaps it would be good.” Cassandra said, cutting him off from his niceties. “Commander?” She gestured towards the door.

“Well, the Inquisitor does seem to be in good hands…” Cullen said, trailing off.

“The best. Go on.” Lavellan encouraged, making a shooing motion with his non-bloody hand. Appropriately hesitant at first, the both of them left him alone with the healer.

-

He’d gotten away with a ruined nose and a sharp cut along his bridge. That, and the lingering smell of blood, a reddened cough and pain whenever he breathed. The healer had given him a salve to numb most of the sting, which reduced its usefulness as a distraction, somewhat. Still, the low, drumming stress at the back of his mind persisted. He elected to stew in the bath rather than go back out to the training yard. The clamour of the soldiers was preferable to the stiff, creaking silence of his chambers, but it would have to do. Distantly, he could hear the birds calling outside. He did all he could to keep his mind off the Winter Palace; just the _thought_ of it all made nerves raise along his spine.

His hands slid beneath the soapy water and along his wet skin to rest upon his jagged knees. He prodded the joints with the pads of his wrinkled thumbs, feeling the knobs and divots. He traced a small, surface-deep scar below one kneecap and forced himself to think of something else. Which one was this? The forest? Or the steps to his third apartment, the one overlooking the bay? He pressed his dulled nail into it, leaving a crescent-shaped imprint. He shifted to sit up higher, the water sloshing over onto stone. His back protested the movement and he bit back a pained groan. He leaned back, arms lining the rim of the tub as he fell into a barely more comfortable position. Perhaps if he lazed about long enough, the pain would go away on its own.

He let his head loll back and stared up into the dusty shadows lining his faraway ceiling. The daylight slowly dimmed from the stained glass window. A few fluttering shapes passed the fading reds and blues, casting odd shadows along the opposing wall for scarcely a moment. Lavellan tried to listen to the songbirds outside his balcony; the ones near the garden. He caught the end of a call.

Just then, a rapping at his door made him jolt. Heart thrumming, he let out a long, exasperated breath and raised himself from the bath with some effort.

He pulled on a pair of drawers and swaddled himself in one of his blankets as soon as he was able. It blocked out the waterborne chill which chased him, leaving footprint-shaped marks along his rug wherever he went. He moved on those bare feet down his cool stone stairs, a train of blanket brushing the floor in his wake. The wooden walkway leading to his door was rough and liable to stick splinters in his toes, thus he walked with some careful leisure. He had to yank his blanket train over the pieces of forgotten lumber it tended to catch upon.

“Who is it?” He called before he’d reached the door, lifting his excess blanket up to hold at his side instead.

“Report for you, Ser.” Came the muffled reply. Lavellan yanked the door open and the neatly-twined stack of papers was already being held out to him.

“What about?” He asked, not expecting an especially concrete answer. The scout seemed to flounder for a moment before he replied.

“Ah--The Winter Palace, Your Worship. It’s straight from Sister Leliana for you, Ser.” He continued to hold out the documents, even as Lavellan grumbled and rubbed at his temple. Here were his duties, come to dog him again. Right on schedule! The nerves trailed back along his spine and up to sit behind his eyes, where they clustered together in a throbbing headache.

“Thank you.” He murmured, reaching for the reports. When his hand came within a few scant inches of the scout’s, it discharged a shock of electricity. The young man let out a yelp and dropped the reports for favour of cradling his hand. As soon as they’d hit the floor, he was scrambling to pick them back up.

“Terribly sorry, Your Worship,” he said, shaking out his injured hand.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan asked, wide-eyed and surprised out of his grumbling and groaning.

“Fine, Your Worship.” The scout replied, offering up the report once more. “Just a surprise, ’s all. Happens all the time.” This time, Lavellan took the very edge of the reports, avoiding any possible contact. He gave the young man a nod and a tight smile.

“Of course. Apologies, and thank you.” Lavellan said. The scout gave him a courteous salute and rushed off. Lavellan could spot him still nursing his hand as he cut back through the main hall. Tentatively, he closed his door once more.

His bath wasn’t exactly _cold,_ but he’d already put his drawers back on and the idea of getting wet and chilly once again was an insurmountable obstacle. So he climbed into bed instead. He’d left behind a glass of wine on his bedside--likely a poor thing to drink on an injury, just out of principle--but he was in the mood to make small, bad decisions. With one hand, he untied Leliana’s neat twine bow and sifted through the collected parchment. His other cradled his half-empty glass.

Cloth requisitions, button designs, how many soldiers they would smuggle into the palace--it was all making his head spin. He’d drained his wine after a scant fifteen minutes of poring over a passage titled: What Colours Would Be Deemed Acceptable For Jacket Trim. He still held his glass in his hand to at least feel less like he was drinking away his boredom. Half of him was excited for a night of dancing, drinking and court espionage. The other half wanted to get it over with so they could stop planning so much. Really, it was sweet of Josephine to make him a part of the decision-making process. It made him feel very included. But it also made him steadily more bitter about the entire ordeal.

He couldn’t help but scowl at it all. Perhaps he’d been spending too much time around Dorian; he was feeling exceptionally cynical. As his mind wandered, he started to weigh his options. Would the Empire be better off under the thumb of a mantic demon overlord? So long as he knew how to spend according to his means, he was sure there would at least be _some_ improvement. Pits of hellfire and lashings by demons _could_ be made more tolerable by an ounce of social welfare!

It made his stomach turn to think of how much the Inquisition’s coffers were being emptied just to keep up with the entire charade. Just to make a cute little show of wealth. _At least,_ he mused, _s_ _peaking about the war’s losses would come with a throng of servants pouring them wine and feeding them cake on little golden spoons._ It wasn’t likely he’d ever get the chance to eat gold-coated ham or some such nonsense ever again; the world had no time for such frivolity outside of the Winter Palace.

For a moment, he was reminded of the hard winters where his clan struggled to get enough food to go around. His own scrawny, thin arms as he clumsily worked to tan a skin of one of their own halla. Life-saving, it was claimed, but he couldn’t forget the look of grim despair that cut into his father’s eyes as they butchered more and more of the herd once food grew scarcer. Women, blessed with life just the autumn prior, now wept loudly in the cool night alongside the frogs; bereft of that boon as cruel luck snatched it from their grasp.

In the documents, his eye caught the name of the ambassador. Briala. He wondered if she had ever experienced such a thing. Thick, icy winters where the wind and snow blew straight through a body with skin pulled taut over bone. Or even the grimy thinness of the alienages that seemed to dot every city's map like a despised little mole. He wondered if she felt the same nausea he did when he took in the excess. The Empire was a lavish, distasteful joke on the ears of modern civilization; Halamshiral most of all. He wondered if Briala could still see it.

As he thought it, the glass he’d held tight in his fingers suddenly shattered in the air. He was left holding only the stem. He breathed a curse, careful to not touch the many tiny shards of glass now littering that side of his bed and floor. He slipped out of his bed and clumsily set the decapitated stem down onto his other nightstand. He stood there dumbly for a moment, wondering what to do. What had caused it. Where he would sleep.

Perhaps Solas could help; whatever it was he'd just done. He tip-toed around the side of his bed, giving a wide berth to where the glass had shattered. He picked a pair of trousers and a shirt from his dresser. Leliana’s reports would have to wait. Halamshiral would have to wait.


	26. Treading Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand back to the regularly-scheduled updates. Maybe.

“...Unusual discharge, you say?” Solas verified, quirking a hesitant brow. Lavellan lolled his head, wearing a boyish frown.

“Not like _that._ Magic discharge.” He replied. “It happened while I was reading reports. I got… upset. Then the glass in my hand exploded.” Solas’s brows raised. “Come to think of it, I accidentally shocked the poor sod who came to _give_ me the reports. Seemed like it hurt.”

“May I ask what these reports were about?”

“The Winter Palace. All sorts of… technical bits.” Lavellan replied, waving a hand, “...rubbish.” he grumbled.

“...Ah.” Solas hummed, tapping his chin with his index finger. “I seem to recall you having a similar episode some time ago.”

“Did I?”

“In the Mire, was it not? You did something to wipe out a whole _throng_ of undead. Like an uncontrolled magic discharge.” Lavellan’s brow furrowed.

“I… suppose. Yes. What’re you thinking?” Solas moved to rifle through some papers. He took up a small tome and flipped silently through it, not answering the question. Lavellan folded his arms over his chest and waited, one foot poking at a leg of the desk. Solas made a quiet sound of triumph and came back around to where Lavellan could see him.

“May I try a spell on you? It should help you to control your magic until we can find another solution.” Solas requested, looking hopeful.

“Yes, alright,” Lavellan said. Then, a bit more tentatively, “will it hurt?”

“Likely not.”

“Ah. Go on, then.” Solas plucked a crystal from a corner of his desk and tucked it into Lavellan’s fingers. He stood back a step and traced the line of his reading with one finger. He then raised his hand, the palm facing Lavellan, and drew a rune in the air. Seeing this, Lavellan squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation.

“It’s done.” Solas said, a few moments later. Lavellan blinked his eyes back open, looking pleasantly surprised. It didn’t _seem_ like anything had changed. He felt... fine. Perhaps his mana felt a little weak; like the ache of his legs after a long run. Not quite exhausted, but a bit spent. Whether that was Solas's doing or his own, he had no idea.

“Right on. Any ideas for how to fix me?” He asked, forcing cheer. He leaned an elbow on the small, clear space on the edge of the desk. When he bumped a tome and caused a tiny avalanche of books, he flinched back and leaned on the opposite arm rest instead.

“I’ll have to look into it. If this is just a case of emotional weakness, I’m sure there’s some way to make a charm. Or we could simply wait for it to go away.”

“Charm sounds good.” Lavellan replied pointedly. “If you make it look dazzling, I bet I could wear it to the ball. Make the dowagers quake in their little crystal slippers.” Solas let out a laugh, partly to humour him.

“Very well. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Question.” Lavellan said, raising a finger. Solas gestured for him to continue. “Will I be… dangerous?” He asked, “how’s this spell work?”

“It should last as long as someone can help to maintain it. It'll likely last longer if you keep your emotion relatively in check, as well. It may deteriorate if you do anything especially taxing.” Solas explained. “Perhaps you should avoid your reports until a more permanent solution is found.”

“Sounds fine by me,” Lavellan said, rising from the seat, “I was going to do that anyway. Thank you, Solas. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

“You’re welcome, lethallin. Look after yourself.” Solas looked back to his tome, giving a gentle, if distracted, wave. Lavellan slipped away to scale the stairs just off from Solas’s level of the rotunda.

Upon one small glance, he found Dorian’s alcove empty. He slipped in and settled into the reading chair, sitting atop his legs to make up for the ache in his back. He felt more comfortable giving a visit, now with some reassurance that he wouldn't blow up in a cloud of magic at the slightest mention of _excessive grandeur._

“Shocking, striking, aching. His skin still burns but he says it’s his fault.” Cole voiced, appearing beside the window. Lavellan jumped, though still he tried to hide it. He didn't know who he was doing it for. “You want flowers to make it better.” 

“It’s a start.” Lavellan murmured, casting his eyes up towards the boy. “Are you offering?”

“I don’t know.” Cole replied, matter-of-fact. He stepped forward, extending a careful hand to hold out a number of embrium cuttings. Lavellan took them in both of his, a grateful smile on his lips.

“Thank you, Cole.”

“It will still burn, but it _will_ help. He likes flowers.” And then he was gone. Smiling privately, Lavellan sat back, already working to weave the flower stems in a tight braid.

“Ah, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Dorian asked, striding back into his alcove with a small stack of books under one arm. Lavellan’s fingers paused and he considered making something up.

“Needed some company.” He replied, moderately earnest. Dorian was, among many things, an excellent distraction from the more depressing and bothersome goings-on in his life. A welcome one, given all that had come back to him since he'd retrieved his memories and associated... reservations. Lavellan had told Cassandra snippets of his past when she'd asked him, but Dorian was the one he'd told it all to. He'd kept some details to himself, of course (to keep a bit of mystery and, at points, privacy) but no one aside from him had expressly been told about the sordid decade prior to his Herald-ship. Dorian was becoming a confidant as well as a close and trusted friend. The thought was equal parts terrifying and wonderful. Freeing, to trust and be trusted in return.

Dorian moved away for a moment, feet disappearing from Lavellan’s periphery while he worked. He came striding back into his vision after a few moments, crouching in front of where he sat.

“I saw your sparring session this morning,” Dorian said, an air of amusement to it, “you took quite the hit, it seems.” Absentmindedly, Lavellan twitched his nose, then winced at the following ache. The numbness was starting to wear off.

“It’s not my fault. I was distracted.” Lavellan objected.

“I’m sure our Ambassador will have quite the fit when she sees it.”

“Probably. Speaking of, are you coming to the fitting this evening?” Lavellan asked, still braiding together the embrium stems.

“Evidently not. I hadn’t realized there _was_ one.” Dorian replied, bothering to sound a mite offended at the notion. “What for? Halamshiral?”

“That’s the one,” Lavellan said, a frown already sprouting, “it’s just to decide on a jacket. You should come by. It’ll be in my quarters in a few hours.” Perhaps the fitting could actually be entertaining with him around. Or, at least, not physically painful.

“Is this just a ploy to dress and undress me as you please?” Dorian accused, putting on a sideways smile and climbing to his feet.

“I would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for that discerning wit.” Lavellan shot back, not yet moving to get up. Perhaps a few more moments’ peace.

“Very well. I _suppose_ I can find room in my very busy schedule.”

“My hero.” Lavellan drawled, lolling his head to one side and shooting him a soft smile.

-

Thankfully, _someone_ had been by to sweep up the fine glass shards along his floor and to change his sheets. Leliana’s doing, most likely. Lavellan had been too out of sorts to think to tell anyone to do it, but, he supposed, this was the sort of situation where a constant eavesdropper was a help more than a hindrance. He had left Dorian to his… _w_ _hatever_ he was doing and went about visiting his other allies to pass time. He finished his braided embrium charm halfway through a poor fireside game of Wicked Grace with Varric and had _escaped_ just after losing a scant ten sovereigns on an especially bad hand. Varric had bade him farewell with some joke about pins in _places_ but Lavellan was already fixated on the dread building in his stomach.

Unfortunately, he knew, sooner or later he would need to come to terms with the entire affair. That Halamshiral, no matter how grisly he deemed it, would not wait for him. Corypheus wouldn’t take a polite request to stop in his attempt to crown himself king of everything; allow Lavellan to find some nice villa, settle down, grow fat and old. The masquerade was rushing forth to meet him and no matter how he persisted to stick up his nose and sneer, there was no way past but to go through. He would need to grin and bear it, just as he had in the face of everything since he’d gotten the sense for it post-Adamant. Even if he’d much rather do anything but, fate had demanded that this be dealt with. So, as he’d grown accustomed, he would put on a mask.

He would take his tutelage in stride, put on a pretty smile, and push down the nausea when he faced the court. At the very least, he could try to come up with a half-decent outcome that wouldn’t cripple the people of Orlais in the process. Defeating a magister-god-monster was one thing; ensuring the fate of a nation was another. Perhaps he could even find something amusing about the court; their love for odd collars, perhaps. Or their dangerously self-destructive commitment to The Game. It would almost certainly be a hindrance to saving the Empress, true, but he could always try to get a laugh out of it. It was better than crying out in despair every time he saw a frilly dress in his peripheral vision.

He thumped his way back into his quarters, scowling childishly at the stone and then the messy planks of wood that, though he had long hoped, had _not_ grown legs and walked themselves off the catwalk to his stairs. He’d have to attend to those at some point or another. Perhaps when he found a day off! Now _that_ was good for a laugh. He continued to stare grumpily at the scenery he passed, knowing still that it would make no difference.

He might’ve chuckled at the notion of _time off_ if it wouldn’t startle Josephine out of her slippers as he breached the level of his bedroom. She seemed quite invested in her work of laying out fabric samples on his bedspread while an unknown seamstress put the finishing touches on a few jacket samples at his work desk. Lavellan meandered to a stop in the midst of his hijacked bedroom.

“...Hello.” He greeted tentatively, interrupting the busy silence. Josephine snapped to attention and wheeled around, a bright smile readily on her lips.

“Inquisitor!” She greeted. “You’re early. Excellent.”

“This _is_ my quarters,” Lavellan drawled, putting on a small smile. He moved to her side, looking out at the array of samples. “Why, Lady Montilyet, I am positively wounded.” He puffed. “I put an entire ten minutes into choosing a fabric swatch and here you are, vetoing my decision.”

“Your Worship,” Josephine started, diplomatically disparaging, “I assure you, _all_ your opinions are being taken into consideration.”

“Only the correct ones, I hope.”

“Of course.” She replied, simpering, though there was something more lighthearted behind it. The teasing smile fell away and she was left with an expression shifting quickly to concern, one manicured hand laying upon his upper arm. “I heard that you had some… trouble. Early this morning.” Lavellan’s brows raised.

“You mean this?” He asked, matching her murmuring and pointing to the darkening bridge of his nose. She let out a tight sigh.

“I wasn’t going to mention it this evening, but I _am_ rather disappointed about that.” She replied, as close to stern as she could get without outright scolding. For now.

“It was an accident.” Lavellan said. He wondered just how much she knew and just how easily he could get away with lying and saying he’d tripped. He felt bad enough for Cullen for having done it; he didn’t deserve further lecturing.

“So I’m told.” Josephine said pointedly, “though that isn’t what I was referring to.” Lavellan nodded tentatively. How many people knew about his… _emotional instability?_ Tense shame flared in his cheeks and he averted his eyes. People already had their reservations over him and his position; he didn’t need to be branded a dangerous mage and, at the very worst, risk the Rite. He was sure Leliana would have her ways, but it was better to not need to employ them at all. It seemed of late that he was built to disappoint. His lips parted as he worked up a quick reply, but Josephine was already cutting him off.

“You don’t need to explain anything to me. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Right. I’m fine, thank you.” He replied, probably too quickly.

“If you would prefer, we can do the fitting some other time.” She offered.

“That’s alright,” he said, offering a tight smile, “I’ve already invited company. I’d hate to disappoint.” It was time for her brows to raise, now.

“Did you?” She asked, a smile slipping into her voice. “I see. Excellent.” Her heeled slippers clacked mutely over the carpet as she passed to where the seamstress finished her work. Josephine took up an offered jacket and turned to hold it out by the shoulders. It was in a stiff, off-white cloth that hardly wrinkled when it was moved. 

“Here. One of our options.” She said, “one of three.”

 _“Three?”_ Lavellan repeated. “Should I be worried? We’ve barely a month to the day of the party and we haven’t even decided on the uniform yet.”

“Hardly!” Josephine chimed, sounding only a _little_ frantic, “as soon as the details are decided, I’ve a number of talented seamstresses to make the uniform. The order should be entirely finished just in time.” Ah. So they really _couldn't_ reschedule a fitting.

“I was under the impression that it would be a challenge to find even a _single_ seamstress this time of year.” Lavellan said. Remembering himself, he moved to the storage room near his bed and picked out a hidden-away bottle of Antivan red to share.

“Quite right,” Josephine said, sounding pleased, “but I have a number of favours out of both Val Royeaux and Antiva City. This is hardly costly.” Shaking his head, Lavellan carried back the bottle and let out a stream of tsks along the way.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Lady Montilyet. Keep doing this and you’ll set an unattainable standard. I’ll be _ruined_ for all Ambassadors to come.” Lavellan threatened, waving the bottle in silent questioning. He then strode to his bookshelves, plucking a few glasses from a waist-height shelf. He set the lot down on the table beside his sofa. Perhaps he could get one drink in before the others came by.

“That _is_ the goal,” she replied easily. Once he’d filled a glass, he passed it into her waiting hand.

“Very well. Shall'I start trying jackets on? Maybe you could show me how to model.” He suggested, choking down a drink of the wine before setting aside his glass.


	27. Ruined Hearts in A Parade, Pinned up in Finery to Draw the Eye Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8/14/2020: added to the first part of the chapter for your viewing pleasure. Just a small scene.

The rain had started slow. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking Skyhold down to its foundation. Rain now pelted down hard against the roof, smearing ripples across the glass panes of Lavellan’s balcony doors. They kept the cold and wet at bay, segregating the wild from the more comfortable, tamed and tepid climate of his chambers. He held a glass of wine loosely in one hand, legs crossed one over the other as he reclined in his relocated desk chair. Josephine continued to pick through swatches. The seamstress had long since left his chambers and now three others had taken her place.

The room was cast in the dim, yellow warmth of the fireplace and candelabras smattered around his chambers. Still, with another violent lightning strike, the room lit up like daytime. Lavellan took another casual swig and crossed his other arm around his midsection, fighting a flinch. He'd gotten more used to it, now. He'd trained himself to not quiver, anyway, which was an improvement. He took another fast sip to hide the shaking of his hand. The sweetness of the wine held fast to his tongue, working up a thirst he could only placate with more of the same. He let the wine turn in his fingers, lolling his head back to gaze up at the faraway ceiling. The slope seemed to shimmer in the dark, swaying like a mirage between the dancing flame light and his own wavering consciousness.

The gentle chatter continued on around him, his company working out the specifics of buttons, lining, neckline, et cetera. His eyes had started to glaze over within minutes, and now it was all he had to even keep awake.

“I see you’re taking some time to relax,” Vivienne addressed. She'd taken a dainty seat upon his white divan and pulled the small table to sit more in front of her so that the wine could be within reach. "It's about time you allowed someone else to do the work for you." Lavellan let out a blasé hum in reply, chasing it with another sip of wine. He probably could've slowed down.

“Took you long enough.” Dorian sighed, having made himself comfortable on the edge of the Inquisitor’s bed, skirting the border of where Josephine's swatches still lay sprawled out.

“Yes, well,” Lavellan replied, “what better time than the present? I've got my wine I found in my closet, plenty of company...” He trailed off with a lazy gesture, assuming they'd fill in the rest. Leliana, standing in pensive silence, was busy appraising the items Lavellan had decorated his quarters with. Now, she stood with one hand at her chin as she studied the tapestry hung above his bed.

“So,” Josephine spoke up, trying to coax the Inquisitor back into the conversation despite his dreary slouch, “the four of us have spoken previously about what we would want to consider for the Inquisition uniform at Halamshiral. We all thought it best that you have _some_ say, of course.”

“Naturally.” Lavellan hummed, studying his empty glass. The acerbic taste of the wine had melted away to a pleasant, sweet warmth in his throat. He propped his arm on the back of his seat.

“So, do you have any thoughts? Opinions on the matter?” Josephine asked, putting on a welcoming smile. Lavellan kept his eyes on the glass in his hand.

“...Boots,” he replied, “tall ones. Always liked tall boots. I'm getting Varric to source me a pair.”

“We can certainly work that into the uniform,” Josephine said, "is that... all?" Her tone edged near disappointment.

“I don't know, make me look cute. Like a sweet little elf boy.” Lavellan said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It earned a stifled smile from Dorian, at least, which he considered a small victory.

“A statement like that _would_ make your affiliations obvious,” Josephine murmured in consideration, ignoring the chaffing quality, “though some may consider it an act of support for Briala.”

“Something small as my drawers won't matter for shit if I don’t support her aloud,” Lavellan replied, finally looking up from his wine, “maybe the Empire could learn that not all elves are the same, nor natural allies. Then again, maybe not.”

“All assumptions are made for a reason, dear,” Vivienne said, pouring herself a glass of the red they’d brought along with them, “though we should still be mindful that we don’t make you look like a Keeper. Strong though your ties to your heritage are, they are _not_ the forefront of the Inquisition.” She advised, pointing a manicured finger in his direction.

“If we keep the colours the same, I see no harm in giving our Herald his own unique quality. It should help people pick him out of a lineup, anyway,” Leliana piped up, back still turned from the conversation as she investigated his décor.

“Very well,” Josephine hummed, marking something down on her writing pad, “there’s also the matter of colour and material. Are you certain you want it to be red?”

“Honestly? I want black.” Lavellan answered easily. Another hard crack of thunder made his balcony doors vibrate in place. He fought to look unfazed. He then ignored the mildly disguised glance of concern sent his way.

“That…” Josephine trailed off, exception clear in her tone.

“You would look fetching in red, I think,” Dorian interrupted, imploring. "As would I. I think it's a grand idea."

"Oh, naturally, _you_ are the most needy for representation." Vivienne said in a hum, taking another pointed sip of her wine.

 _"Deserving,_ my dear," he corrected, "never _needy."_

 _"Well--"_ Lavellan went to interrupt. Josephine cut him off with a wave of one swatch.

“It will be red, then.” She announced, cutting off the squabble before it began. It didn't stop Dorian from sending a the elf an offended-looking roll of his eyes.

“Will we get epaulets?" Lavellan asked, putting on a gleaming smile.

"I suppose," Josephine replied, giving him an encouraging nod with the appropriate suggestion, as one might a child, "if that's what you'd like."

“I want to look like a prince. It'll make it so much more romantic when I carry out brutal murder.” He said, taking a giddy drink of his wine.

“What do you think about a sash?” Vivienne asked, addressing Dorian more than the Inquisitor. He gave a vague shrug.

“Perhaps in silk?” He replied.

“We should have a great deal of silk.” Leliana provided. Josephine scribbled something down and kept writing with each new suggestion.

“If you can work hidden blades into the uniform, I'd be ecstatic,” Lavellan said, waving a finger towards the ambassador with a sideways smile. Josephine paused, a soft smile on her lips, and she gave him a small nod.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she reassured, “any other requests?”

“Little signet rings with the Inquisition symbol carved into them. I want to leave a mark if I hit someone.” Lavellan suggested, sounding at once too enthusiastic.

“If?” Vivienne chuckled airily. Dorian smothered his meaner laugh with another drink of wine. Lavellan let out a long-suffering sigh but did nothing about the good-natured tease. He perked up as a thought visibly struck him. He looked back to Josephine.

“You could even give me a silk shirt.” He suggested, looking pleased with himself. Josephine tilted her head.

“That sounds almost Antivan,” she accused, a brighter smile crossing her glossy lips. It was with a bit of mutual surprise that Lavellan remembered how few people he'd told about his background.

“It’s inspired,” Lavellan replied, playing it off, “what can I say? I’m in this to shock the court. I mean--a heretic, an elf, an Antivan? What _will_ they say?”

“Something slanderous, probably.” Dorian replied, setting down his wine to lean back on his hands.

“Without a doubt,” Vivienne agreed, _“but_ making an impression--any impression, so long as we stay in the Empress’s good graces--is advantageous. Perhaps a few more pariahs will come out of the woodwork to join the cause. You seem to be adept at attracting them, after all.” She said, keeping her eyes forward. Lavellan let out a tipsy giggle.

“Oh, don’t I know it,” he chortled, “me and my good fortune.” He stood from his seat, laying his half-empty glass on whatever surface he passed. He moved around the bed to flop across it with as much grace as a wine-drunk elf could muster. He let his eyes close, his world a faded red-orange for a few long moments as he relaxed against the bed. It shifted under him a small amount.

“Well, I’m sure that’s quite enough for one night,” Vivienne said softly. He could feel eyes on him as she spoke to someone else, “let’s continue this in your office, shall we?” There were a few soft clinks and a bit of shuffling before the footsteps faded out and his door closed downstairs.

The silence encroached slowly; the chatter and simpered jokes of the evening still playing on repeat in his mind. He was left staring up at where his ceiling should be, somewhere in the dark. The fabric swatches were still laid out at the foot of his bed and he could feel them bunching together when he moved his feet.

His mind moved to his desk. He’d spotted Leliana leaving a document there; less sneaky than she might’ve liked with a third of a bottle of Antivan red in her. It was after he'd given her the embrium charm to pass along to the young man he'd zapped the hell out of. His bed was so warm and so welcoming but curiosity tugged him out of it. He slipped across the cool floor to snatch up the camouflaged document and, once it was firmly within his tipsy fingers, he moved to his balcony doors where the moonlight filtered in.

It was in this blue-tinted light that he read the forwarded message from his clan, all neat elven calligraphy in sloping lines of black. It was with some hesitance that he’d first contacted them outright; writing as _Inquisitor Lavellan_ rather than _Syrillon._ He’d asked how the lazy northern winters were treating them and would they pretty please let him know if they needed any help at all.

The response, as he’d expected, was perfectly dismissive. _We’ve lived for hundreds of years without the help of shem, what makes you think we need them now?_ Though perhaps in not so many words, and with an added helping of flowery, diplomatic language which made it sound less like he was being scolded. He read it over once, twice, then three times. Blood lotus was in good supply and they’d attached some for him in a bundle. The halla seemed nervous these days, but it was more than likely that they felt an incoming storm; there had been plenty sweeping in from the Waking, evidently.

Letting out a sigh, Lavellan folded up the letter in his hands and just leaned against the wall, looking out at the moon. If his father said that things were alright, he should trust him. Worrying would do him no good at all. Still, it felt as if there was something in the air. Perhaps it was just the lingering spirit of Adamant and the Fade taking its toll on him. Reminding him of how easily things could simply… slip away.

He laid the letter back down on his desk and returned to his bed. Would he have been happier to hear that _no,_ things were _not_ all alright and the clan needed him to save the day, same as so many others? Perhaps he’d only grown used to the chaos. Expected it, and now, without it, he felt at a loss. He was stewing over nothing. He should just lie back and _sleep._

He awoke to a distant knocking. His eyes snapped open, finding the distant, sloped ceiling lit up in golds and greys with post-dawn sunlight. He slipped groggily from his bed, rubbing the dreamless sleep from his eyes. His hair was a mess and his clothing felt heavy with old sweat but he endeavored to not keep his visitor waiting. He trailed down the stairs, careful to keep a hand on the balustrade as he descended. He was liable to tumble down and hurt himself and he did _not_ need more of that as far as he could help it.

His eyes were barely half-open when he opened the door. It took a moment to register that his visitor was, in fact, shorter than he’d expected and _also_ more chest-haired than he’d expected. Brows raising an inch, he offered a smile.

“Morning.” He greeted.

“Morning.” Varric replied. “Can I come in?” Lavellan stepped aside and shut the door behind him.

“How’re you doing?” Lavellan asked tentatively, walking alongside him back up the stairs. He and Varric had chatted only occasionally since Adamant. It was passing comments at first; the type that let Lavellan know Varric wasn’t holding a grudge. Then, steadily enough, once they’d broached the topic of Hawke over a game of Wicked Grace, he’d tearily shared a favourite story. Not much else had come up since then and it had nearly been a week since _that_ game. Things were… not quite tense, and certainly not _awkward,_ as Varric had clearly endeavored to accomplish. But they weren’t the same.

“Well, you know,” Varric drawled, “every day’s something new.”

“Mm. Usually something bad, though, eh?”

“Oh, well, _yeah,_ obviously.” Varric scoffed. He strode across the faded red-and-green carpet, sparing a passing glance to the many wine-stained glasses still left about the room.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Lavellan asked next, tugging the chair at his vanity so that he could sit facing the rest of the room.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” the dwarf replied, putting on a tight smile. “Was wondering if we could talk.”

“We’re talking now.” Lavellan said with an easy shrug. He placed one hand over his heart, “whatever you need, my friend. I won't go blabbing; on the Maker.”

“Right,” Varric replied in a harsh chuckle, “you wouldn’t make it sound so easy if you knew how intimidating you are.” He puffed, coming to sit on the low sofa beside the vanity. Lavellan leaned one elbow on the wood surface of it, watching Varric with a relaxed, if droopy-looking smile. Varric shrunk with a tight sigh and cast his frown to the rug-covered floor.

“You ever lose someone close?” He asked, voice lower this time. Lavellan’s face fell to a solemn frown and his lips parted in an _ah_ that he didn’t voice.

“...No.” He replied, breaking the silence that had quickly crept up. It would’ve been tasteless to specify that it was more because he’d never had a great number of _close_ people at all.

“Mm. Then I guess there’s no point in asking if it hurts less over time.” Varric’s arms gathered around his midsection like a loose hug.

“Perhaps not.” Lavellan murmured. He paused, searching for the words. Something. _Anything._ “You know, in my clan, we have this… tradition.” He said, carrying on before his mind could completely catch up. He had to help. He had to bring back that smile somehow.

“Is this one of those naked-dancing-in-the-moonlight ones?” Varric asked.

“If you’d like.” Lavellan replied, flashing a small, encouraging smile. “Truth be told, we have an astonishing lack of those, but that’s neither here nor there.” He waved a dismissive hand, “telling stories is a large part of our traditions. You would really do well, I’m sure you’d get quite the following.” Lavellan continued, gesturing gently as he worked to lighten the mood. At least Varric wasn’t staring gloomily at the carpet so much anymore.

“We have this… story. It’s a bit grim, so I’ll spare you the details, but there’s one part that always stuck with me. It’s.. a father, writing to his son, knowing he would die. He said: _I am alive in everything I touch,_ ” Lavellan recited, gesturing softly, _“say my name and you have me in the air around you. Breathe in deep and hold tight to my memory. We survive in one another. Everything lives forever so long as you remember.”_ A fond smile took up residence and he looked to Varric, who worried his lip.

“That’s… nice, I guess. Poetic.” He replied, letting out a soft sigh. “I get what you mean. Thanks.”

“No need. If you’d like to keep chatting, how about a spot of breakfast?” Lavellan offered gently, "Nothing like a full stomach to soothe the heart. I won't even recite any more poetry." Varric gave a slight nod.

“That means you’re paying, right?”

“Of _course,_ lethallin.”

-

“They stumbled out a couple hours later, not knowing what the _hell_ just happened,” Varric recounted, laughing his way through the story. Lavellan chuckled along, taking a drink of his tea. Their cleared plates were pushed aside to one corner of their table, taking up a great deal of space. “Then, after that, they just stopped coming. He never even found out why!”

“I should try that sometime,” Lavellan chimed, setting down his drink on the limited tabletop. “I can’t imagine how charming he had to be to do something like that.”

“The key is _confidence,_ ” Varic stressed, “and _pizzazz._ ” Lavellan, leaning his jaw on one hand, let out a giggle.

“Pizzazz, you say?” He hummed, nodding sagely, “I see.” Varric held up a hand to ask for pause and slipped out of his chair, plucking up Maryden’s lute from where she’d left it tucked in against a barrel. He plucked a few discordant sounds from it. Through his wound-up wince, Lavellan still smiled. Varric settled back into his seat and plunked a song from the lute, which eventually morphed into something more recognizable. Lavellan watched him with a pleased grin and tapped his foot along with the scarce beat.

“I don’t even know how to play this thing,” Varric claimed after a few moments.

“Truly?” Lavellan gasped, playing up his surprise. “Oh, but you’re so _confident._ ”

 _“Exactly,”_ Varric shot back, “see? That’s how they getcha.”

 _“Wow!”_ Lavellan exclaimed in a chortle, leaning back in his chair. “What a special moment. Thank you, Varric, I’ll remember this forever.”

“Yeah, you do that.” He replied, setting the lute aside with another discordant sound. Lavellan folded his arms comfortably over his chest and kicked one leg over the other.

“So, we’ve been talking non-stop about me. How are you doing?” Varric asked, leaning back in his own seat. Lavellan knew that tone; one that begged to change the subject without making it seem necessary. For comfort. Dorian did it often. Hell, _he'd_ done it plenty of times. Lavellan kept up his smile and allowed him this solace easily.

“Oh, not so bad. The world’s crumbling, but when’s it not?” He shrugged loosely. His easy smile betrayed the casualness of his intention.

“At least it’s not raining.” Varric replied matter-of-factly.

“Damn right, I’ll drink to that.” Lavellan chimed, lifting his tea in a toast. Varric lifted his own and the edges of their glasses clinked together.


	28. Words to Keep Warm While Waiting for Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey why aren't there bratty kids in Inquisition?? Give me 10 year old kids who will roast me when I walk by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bull and Lavellan and Dorian are the Father and the Son(s) and Cole is the holy ghost

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra called, catching Lavellan’s attention. He wheeled around, a pleasant smile already on his lips. The Seeker’s steps faltered as she approached, her confusion apparent for only a passing moment.

“Are you busy?” She asked, now a scant few strides from him. Lavellan gave her a lazy shrug.

“Not really, just out for a stroll. What can I do for you?” Cassandra clasped together her hands and moved to walk at his side, lips drawn into a more pensive frown than her usual. They traipsed leisurely down a set of steps, not wandering anywhere in particular.

“I… heard that you’re a fan of poetry. Romance.” She ventured, finally speaking after a moment while still wringing her hands. Lavellan let out a soft chuckle.

“Oh, who told you?” He asked.

“I swore to never tell.” She replied evenly.

“Ah, Dorian then. Well, it’s true. Makes me feel all tingly an’ that. Why do you ask?” He angled a warm smile towards her. Her lips parted in reply but she cut herself off.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, “your… crown. It’s distracting.” Remembering himself, Lavellan brought a hand to his head, where his newly-acquired lyrium-imbued flower crown rested atop his puffy white hair. A wider smile crossed his lips.

“You like it, though, right? I think it suits me.”

“Of course.” She replied evenly. For her sake, he slipped it off his head and carried it in one hand instead. Falling back on-course, Cassandra resumed. “I wanted to thank you for looking into the Seekers.”

“Oh, Cassandra, that’s--” Lavellan started, but she cut him off with one raised hand. She pulled a piece of folded parchment from her pocket and offered it up.

“It’s one of my favourite passages. A poem, from Antiva. You… lived there, didn’t you?” They came to a slow stop and Lavellan looked between her and the paper for a moment. Soldiers moved around them in a lazy stream where they stood on the battlements.

“I did,” he replied, almost a question, reaching a tentative hand towards the offered gift. He pinched the parchment between his fingers and then unfolded it. Scanning the page, he found some of the words were just a bit too unfamiliar for him to glean a lot of the poem’s meaning. Still, he smiled as he looked up at her. “Thank you. This is lovely.”

“You are welcome. I… did not expect to find friends here, of all places. Least of all in you. But I want you to know that I stand by what I said, back at Haven.” He tilted his head with interest.

“In it until the end, right?” He asked, tentative.

“I believe it was _the long haul,_ but yes.” She clapped a hand on his upper arm, “wherever it takes us, I would gladly stand at your side.” A surprising wave of emotion crashed over him that had him clearing his throat to not make a sappy fool of himself.

“That’s--wow.” He breathed, smiling toothily, “thank you. I’ll make you proud.”

“You already have.” She reassured. Then, “if you would like, I have a few books I could lend you. About romance.”

“I would love that,” he replied, still grinning boyishly.

-

It was in the Exalted Plains that Lavellan brought out Cassandra’s gift once more. He held it between his fingers and glanced across the party, watching with a tiny smile as Bull talked Cole through scouting the horizon ahead. Then, not far from him, to Dorian flipping through his codex. The mage leaned hard on his staff in his other hand, brow fixed in concentration. His nose scrunched, clearly disappointed with the results of… _whatever_ he was looking for. Lavellan spared another glance to the other half of the party before tiptoeing closer, bumping Dorian's arm.

“Now, let’s not let your face get stuck like that.” He teased, drawing a sigh. “I have something for you. Look, look,” he beckoned, already grinning. He unfolded the poem and held it out. Dorian’s face warped with curiosity and he leaned to get a look. As he read it, his brows slowly raised and a bemused smile crossed his lips.

“Where in the world…?” He started, snatching up the parchment. _“Don’t_ tell me,” Dorian said, already shocked into laughing, “I’d heard about a certain Antivan dowager Josephine had been dealing with, but _this…_ ” Lavellan’s smile turned to something a bit more reserved.

“What’s it say?” He asked, expectant. Dorian paused, glancing up at him with brows raised partway to his hairline.

“You don’t _know?_ ” He asked, almost at a whisper of delight. Lavellan shook his head, glancing down at the poetry. Had Cassandra given him something lewd and he hadn’t realized?

“Tell me what it means,” Lavellan insisted, feeling more left out the more Dorian laughed, “don’t be rude.” He reached for the poem but Dorian moved away.

“Trouble in paradise over here?” Bull’s timbre interrupted their quiet squabble. Lavellan glanced his way before turning to face him, a childish frown on his lips.

 _“Yes,”_ Lavellan replied, nearly a whine, just as Dorian said the exact opposite. Bull jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards their destination, a loose smile on his lips.

“Well, the road's clear up ahead, Boss. Looks like your scouts were off.” He informed. Lavellan’s more serious, _Inquisitorial_ expression appeared and he gave a firm nod.

“Very well, then. Let’s press on.” Bull turned away, catching up to where Cole stood idly by, watching curiously as a squirrel darted around the thick trunk of a nearby tree. With the Qunari more out of earshot, Lavellan turned his gaze back to Dorian, giving a poor attempt at a stern look.

“You’re going the right way for a smacked bottom, Lord Pavus,” he threatened, snatching back the parchment. Dorian made no real move to evade this time. He let out a guffaw and made a show of an appreciative once-over.

“Promise?” He replied.

-

Emprise du Lion was, unsurprisingly, still terrible. The weather was inhospitable, the roads were scattered with demons and the people were understandably _miserable._ Lavellan had come through to clear out the quarry some month previous but he had little time to go out of his way to help the populace, namely in Sahrnia. Luckily, their provisions of food and blankets were coming through from a nearby camp around the same time the party swept in from the Graves. It gave them significant goodwill; for the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste himself to be handing out scratchy woollen blankets to the shivering masses. The party rested for a scant few hours in the war-beaten settlement before setting out to clear rifts with full, warm bellies.

Lavellan found himself avoiding iced-over bodies of water at the best of times. Better judgement told him to be wary of its thinness being the only thing between him and a watery grave. So when their only option to access the rifts around the fade-frozen lake was to slide precariously across it, Lavellan was more than hesitant. He kept his eyes on his feet the entire time to ensure he wouldn’t slip up and, whenever another party member was within arm’s length, he was sure to latch onto them. An un-Heraldly thing to do, perhaps, but no one was watching. Probably.

The high, squealing laughs of children nearly startled him into slipping. It was Iron Bull who grabbed his collar and stopped him from smashing his front teeth on the ice. Heart racing from near injury, Lavellan caught sight of a few scrappy-looking kids sliding around the icy lake not far from them. Two of them slipped hand-in-hand in a clumsy circle as another sat in the snowy embankment nearby, watching and laughing along. With a strong arm for assistance, Lavellan and the party shuffled over towards them. Bull didn’t seem to have as much of an issue walking as he himself did, which was helpful when _he_ was the one who would fall straight through the ice if he took a tumble.

“Oy, you kids!” Lavellan called, nearly twenty paces from them. The ones on the ice slowed and snapped to face him. At the distance, he could make out a played-up sneer on one of their faces.

“Who’re you calling kid, old man?” One of them demanded, voice high and stuffed with bluster. He was easily half the size of Lavellan, and scarcely a third the size of the Qunari he clung onto. Still, the boy puffed out his scrawny chest under his worn winter jacket and turned up his grubby nose.

“You know there’s rifts out here, right? Demons and shit--where are your _parents?”_ Lavellan asked, voice raised to traverse the meager distance, though it lifted an octave with the question. The kid shrugged vaguely and Lavellan let out a quiet scoff. “You should head back to the town. It’s not safe out here for anyone.”

“You should follow your own advice, then, huh?” One of the other kids jabbed. The other two laughed along jeerily and, despite himself, Bull let out a short, quiet laugh.

“Fair point.” Lavellan agreed, a bit quieter. “Still, you all better keep away if you hear fighting, alright? I don’t want any of you getting caught up in it.” At that, the three of them descended into conspiratorial whispers. The two on the bank seemed more insistent and their voices raised to be nearly discernible. Then, after a moment’s bickering, they all straightened out.

“Deal.” The boy on the ice replied, speaking for the trio. “You know about the things in the water, monsieur Holy-Whatever?” Lavellan tilted his head and glanced down at the ice underfoot as it was brought up, taking the name in stride.

“...No?” He replied.

“Oh. Well, there’s things in the water.” The boy supplied.

“Ah. No kidding.”

“Yeah, pa said they were sturgeon but he looked like you do when he said it. Scared out of his breeches. Didn’t say what he _really_ thought it was, but I don’t think it’s sturgeon.”

“That’s so _stupid,_ ” one of the other children chimed, “all the fish are _asleep_ right now. Obviously.” The others turned to bicker and Lavellan glanced to Iron Bull, who gave a vague shrug.

“Well, thanks for letting us know. Keep an eye out for each other, yeah?” Lavellan said, putting on his _Inquisitor_ voice. One of the boys gave him an overplayed military salute which was copied twice over. Lavellan brushed it off and they moved along.

“What do you think, Boss? Demons?” Bull spoke up once they were away from the children, voice low regardless of the distance.

“I certainly hope not.” Lavellan replied in a sigh.

“Hungry. They’re so _hungry,_ ” Cole murmured at the back of the party, voice wavering as he watched the ice below. Shapes and shadows warped beneath their feet. Whatever it was, it wasn't showing its face.


	29. Shadows Only Exist in Daytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special piece of art just for this chapter; The Boys(R): Chilly Edition: https://i.imgur.com/oOBKm5J.png

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wicked Eyes starts tomorrow. Enjoy ;)

Lavellan had been distracted more than once by the strange shapes under the ice. Amorphous bodies and odd faces with wide, gaping mouths pressed up against the surface like glass and he half expected it to fog with breath. The shadows seemed to follow them wherever they walked; huddling underfoot when Lavellan sealed a rift, as if waiting for the ice to break so they could lay claim to him. Once it snapped closed, the dense shadows dispersed once more, as if vanquished.

Lavellan took one step and a long, low groaning rippled across the ice. The party shared a look of worry.

“Towards the bank!” Lavellan ordered, shuffling carefully across the ice. If he looked close enough, he could see little white fractures running like veins through the surface below him. They reached the bank and the tension lessened for a fleeting moment until they noticed the cracking growing in volume at a distance. Across the water, the fractures grew and grew and the shadows followed the sound. Lavellan took off at a jog to track it, skirting the edge of the water. He cleared a corner just as the sounds crescendoed with a thundering snap.

Then it went silent.

Ice and water burst forth in a wave, little shards cutting through the air and striking Lavellan’s legs and arms where he flinched away. It was followed by the crash of water falling from the breach in the ice, then the thundering wail of a Terror. Jaw unhinged to cry out, it skittered across the water, followed suit by a number of wraiths in a shadowy stream. Lavellan, followed close by his companions, slid carefully across the ice to the bank nearer the demons now flooding the area. Between the slippery surface and the fragility of the ice, the two warriors were pressed to move carefully.

The fight was going smoothly, all things considered. That was until Lavellan caught an unfamiliar sound over the groaning cries of the demons. In the slightest pause of the battle, he spotted the trio of boys on the bank across from them, tossing rocks at the demons’ backs and heckling them with all their childish might. He shimmied off the embankment upon which they'd drawn the battle to, tense fear rising in his chest as he was forced to move slower than he needed. A shade lunged for him, talon-first, and he had to choose between taking the hit or falling.

His shoulder blade cracked against the ice and the sharp pain that followed seemed to come in waves. Through it, Lavellan maneuvered his sword to skewer the demon looming over him. Ear pressed awkwardly against the icy ground, the low snapping was more audible. Cracks started to branch out from where he lay, more apparent once he scrambled to his uneasy feet. He took another step in the direction of the boys, who seemed to have noticed his approach and were now running off the ice. His attention was stolen away by Despair's call drawing too close, standing his hair on-end. He whipped around, meeting its spell with a half-assed barrier. Suddenly, he could feel shifting underfoot.

He couldn’t manage another step before the ice started to crumble away into black water. He slipped, letting down his barrier to first break his fall. Then, his frozen fingers grappled for a hold as his feet plunged into the black water. The cold sent shocking pain up his legs, fingers stinging from the frost as he clung to a crack in the ice. With his barrier down, the tail end of the Despair’s attack cut a line of tiny ice shards along one cheek towards his shoulder. It wailed and swept away when someone else’s attack drew its attention.

He kicked and struggled to get back onto the ice, breaths coming in as short, shallow gasps. The water was shockingly cold and it clung to his skin like a burn. Between pants of breath, he swallowed the smell of rot coming from the world below. He could see figures moving in that blackness beneath him and the fear of a phantom hand grabbing at his boot had him struggling a bit faster. Each time he hauled himself farther from the water, the edge of the ice seemed to keep crumple under him once more; it was a lucky break that allowed him to roll himself far enough onto the plane to get his frosty boots onto the surface.

His sword lay on the ice a few strides from him; too far to grab for it in one move. He scurried on hands and knees, fingers seared from the cold, to grab the hilt. It clattered against the frozen ground as he pulled it in close. Then, eyes wide, he scoured the battlefield. The party was near overwhelmed at the bank and he was here, marooned. Looking towards the opposite bank, he saw where another Despair--or perhaps the same one?--had descended.

One of the young boys was standing on the ice, almost ten paces out from the bank. He and his shoreline friends continued to toss stones hard at the wailing demon. Lavellan struggled to his feet. Any time the boys had bought him was quickly dwindling. A shade started to climb from the gap Lavellan had created, but a fireball downed it before he could get in a weak swing. A yell had him snapping his head back to where the children were clustered.

The ice had splintered open once more and one of the boys was swallowed up by the water. Just as he fell in, the Despair narrowly missed with another cascade of ice. It only worked to seal up the surface over top of him where he fell. Lavellan’s heartbeat, deafening in his ears, was the only sound as he rushed forth. He slipped, cracking one knee on the ice. He let out a surprised cry as he continued to slide, his momentum carrying him partway to where the boy pounded his weak fists against the underside of the ice. Lavellan scrambled forth on his hands and knees the remaining distance, palms burning.

The Despair cried again and he could feel Solas’s spell splinter and break bit by bit. Every beat of his heart--every ragged breath bent another bar on the cage surrounding his mana. It was at once painful and freeing to break through the unfelt hold on him. He raised his hands and a surge of flame lashed out, embracing the Despair and smothering it with unbridled heat. Lavellan wrenched his hands back, cuffs singed and palms searing hot. He didn’t even realize he was shouting from the pain with the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. It had been only moments, but the boy’s hits to the ice seemed to be growing slower. Lavellan’s sight was growing hazy from adrenaline and shook with each hard beat of his heart. He was running out of time.

Without thinking, he brought down his still-hot fist on the ice. Then again. Then again. The ice began to split the same as his skin and within another hit, it was smeared with blood. Still, he didn’t stop. He kept hitting until the ice cracked and he only needed to push down to make it splinter further. Then the black water was open to him and the boy, who had started to float more limply, was within his reach. He grabbed him by his sopping collar and hauled him from the icy world below. As soon as he was free, the boy began coughing and spitting weakly, trying to force the murky water from his nose and lungs. He sobbed snottily between hard coughs, blue-tinted fingers rubbing at his eyes. Lavellan wrapped a careful arm around him and attempted to warm his ears with his still-hot, shaking hands.

“It’s alright,” he murmured hoarsely, glancing around wide-eyed to the rest of the lake. Bull was wrenching his axe from a final shade. Dorian moved to cross onto the ice, but the Qunari put out an arm to keep him at the shore. They shared an unintelligible word and Lavellan looked down to the shaking boy under his arm. “You’re alright now.”

It was lucky that he and the boy weren’t far from the opposite shore. It allowed his friends, undeterred by the uneven ice and the occasional shadow still stirring beneath it, to cross over to them. One of them helped their friend to his feet as another gave Lavellan a firm, riling pat to the shoulder.

“Are you bleeding?” He demanded.

“I’m fine.” Lavellan breathed, cradling his bloodied hand. Both his palms were still bright red and tingling, whether from the chill or the heat, he was unsure. The starts of blisters on the flat surfaces of his hands made him think it was the latter.

“Come on.” The boy ordered, gesturing for Lavellan to stand. “I’m not gonna carry you.”

“No?” Lavellan puffed, breathless and groaning as he worked to his feet, “shame. That’d be an impressive show.” Every part of his body was starting to throb, his knee especially.

“Don’t think I can’t, old man,” the boy snipped, one small hand wound into Lavellan’s charred cuff to lead him ashore. The children didn’t seem to have near as much trouble walking on the ice. It was helpful to have _someone_ making sure he didn’t knock out his own teeth, he supposed, even if that person was half his height and liable to let him hurt himself if he kept chatting. Once on the snowy embankment, Lavellan turned, gesturing for the party to meet him farther down the road towards Sahrnia. Bull was the one who gave the affirmative and led the party deeper into the snowy forest their side of the iced-over lake.

Lavellan walked with slow, ambling steps alongside the three boys. One of them kept his hand clutched tight to Lavellan’s jacket sleeve and the other walked their freezing friend with an extra jacket on his wet shoulders. They shambled in stiff silence towards Sahrnia, the wind cascading soft flakes of snow upon their hair and shoulders.

“William!” Called a man near the settlement gate. He was wide, bundled in a thick jacket bolstered with a new woollen blanket. The skin from his flushed cheeks up to his thinning black hairline were the only things visible, untouched by his wiry, greyed beard. His brow was set stern with paternal worry and, soon as the unusual quartet drew close enough, he was rushing down the road to meet them with broad strides. He faltered in his step when he recognized the Inquisitor, red-cheeked and slouching with the effort it took to stand as his adrenaline finally drained.

“William, you little--” The man grunted, coming to give a rough, tight embrace to the boy walking Lavellan. He cupped a thick, calloused hand on the boy’s grubby cheek. “What did I tell you about going out there? Hm?” He demanded. The other boys (and elf) idled there as their compatriot was scolded. William cast his eyes to the dirty, snow-matted ground.

“Don’t,” he murmured, “you said _don’t_ go out there.”

“You’re damn right I did.” The man grumbled, ruffling the boy’s ashy-blonde, snow-speckled hair. He caught sight of the trembling, blue-tinted boy down the line and did a double-take. He breathed a curse and quickly plucked the wilting boy off the ground.

“Come.” He ordered the group, jerking his head towards the gates. “You all need blankets. Especially you, Your Worship. Let’s get you inside.” Lavellan didn’t bother to argue and simply tagged along with his new party of ten-year-olds.

-

Lavellan had been sat in a shoddy, mostly-empty home following his brief stint in William’s dad’s kitchen. He’d been fed something that sat in his stomach like a rock and given a large cup of hot tea before being sent off with a bundle of blankets for some mandatory rest. He supposed the party would find him soon enough, given the time he’d been forced to spend in the tiny settlement. That, and the Inquisition soldiers who had stationed themselves outside the door. He hoped they’d work it out on their own; he hadn’t the energy to pull himself up.

He was left to the creaky silence of the home and the occasional wailing of the wind. He’d swaddled himself in a few blankets and lit a fire in the dusty hearth to soothe his aching, frosty feet. As he sat, he prodded at his injured hands. He pressed the pad of his thumb into one palm, hissing as one of the young blisters bit sharp pain into his skin. The tea was elfroot; he knew from the astringent aftertaste. It dulled the ache in his bones but it made his eyelids feel heavier than ever.

He turned his hand over and studied his ruined knuckles. The skin was raw and red in most places. Blood had smeared all over his hand and along his fingers where they met; it had long since dried into dark red stains against his skin. On the tips of his first three knuckles were deep, uneven gouges. The skin there was thin and he could get glimpses of bone when he moved his fingers which, if he wasn’t high on analgesic, he might’ve avoided due to the pain.

He turned his hand back over and watched the flames dance for one long moment. Maybe he could rest his eyes for a few minutes. Then it would be back to heading eastward. He slumped to one side, curling around a rough, straw-stuffed pillow and watched the flickering firelight. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier and then he was falling into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke to, seemingly, the same room. The firelight still burned and at first, his hurt seemed dull. When he shifted to sit up, however, he couldn’t hold back a pained groan. He stretched out one leg and the kneecap popped, a sharp pain soon following. A hand, gentle but firm on the crown of his head, startled him from his whining. He shifted a bit, disoriented, and found that his straw pillow had transformed into a pair of legs. He rolled onto his back and Dorian was there, looking down at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, bleary from sleep.

“Good evening.” Dorian replied. His fingers continued to card soothingly through his hair. “How do you do?”

“Shit.” Lavellan said shortly, “comes with the territory, I think.” He brought up his less-injured hand, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand.

“Apparently so. I healed you as well as I could, but you _did_ make quite a mess of things.” As he mentioned it, Lavellan looked his hands over. The blisters were more defined bumps, now. They raised along the pads of each finger, then down across his palms. “I’ve seen mages burn themselves before, but…” Dorian trailed off. Lavellan dropped his hands to his abdomen.

“I know. My magic was too out of control.” He murmured.

“So I take it this has happened before?”

“Solas put a damper on it. A week or so ago, now.” Dorian’s face scrunched in his indignant way and Lavellan watched the crinkle in his nose.

“Well,” Dorian puffed, “I’d not speak for Solas--nor would I want to, believe me--but it doesn’t seem to have been effective.”

“What’s your problem with him? Specifically.” Lavellan asked, canting his head with amused curiosity. He was perfectly content to move on, ignoring the anxious nagging at the back of his head. Solas’s spell, flimsy though it had been, was all but gone. That meant there was nothing stopping him from a too-frightening encounter on the road that could level a small forest. That could include everything and _everyone_ inside it.

“It’s not the matter with _him,_ I suppose, but rather the way he dresses. It’s so dull. Even _Cassandra_ shows herself through her clothing. But there’s Solas; blank as a bit of parchment.” Dorian replied, sighing as he lamented the trials he'd gone through and allowing Lavellan to distract him from what was wrong, “I simply can’t bring myself to trust someone with so little… _anything_ to them. Especially if they do it while in Earth tones.”

“Right,” Lavellan giggled, “fair point.” Absentmindedly, he brought his roughened knuckles up to be studied. The cuts were healed, sure enough, but his joints ached hard. He could hardly twitch them without a sharp pinching, and he was positive it would only get worse the more his pain relief faded. Dorian fell quiet as Lavellan inspected the back of his hand, which was steadily fading to a mute shade of indigo in the firelight.

“I saw you save that boy.” He murmured, matter-of-fact, though there was something softer to it. Lavellan dropped his hand to cast a droopy-eyed smile up at him.

“That’s good; it’s a bit patchy for me.” He replied in earnest.

“Mm. It was terribly heroic. I’m starting to believe all these things people are saying about you; Herald of Andraste and such.” Dorian brought a hand forward, smoothing his palm over Lavellan’s fringe to brush the hair from his face. His hand lay there, thumb along his hairline. It itched to trace the lines of his vallaslin; laid out along his forehead and cheekbones like an Orlesian mask.

“Do you… believe in Andraste?” Lavellan asked in a murmur.

 _“Ah,”_ Dorian hummed, “so we’re at _that_ bit. I see. If you must know, yes; I consider myself Andrastian.” He paused a beat, allowing it to sink in. Lavellan didn’t react much outside of a quirk of his lips. “How else would you, Thedas’s bulwark against evil, survive so many impossible, terrible things?”

“Maybe the Maker--or whoever--is just busy playing diamondback. Forgot about this one little elf down here in humantown.” Two of Lavellan’s long fingers came to rub at the corner of his drooping, wearied eye. He might've moved to sit up, if he wasn't sure his many aches would immediately stop him. His shoulder still stung whenever he breathed and there was a phantom throbbing in his shin, below his injured kneecap.

“With the way things have gone for you outside of your many near-death experiences, I sincerely doubt that that’s the case.” Dorian’s fingers went back to scrubbing through Lavellan’s hair. “Besides, the Maker himself wouldn’t play diamondback. He’d be much more likely to go for Dead Man’s Tricks.”

“Perhaps if I cause a big enough stir, I’ll get to play a hand with him in the afterlife. I’d have to learn how to play, though, s’pose.”

“That’s a better idea for a song than that rubbish Maryden makes up every time I go by the tavern. Do you think she takes requests?” Dorian wondered aloud.

“If you pay, perhaps.”

“Ah. Nevermind, then.”

“Do you think anyone’s written any smutty poetry about me yet?” Lavellan asked, voice slurring lazily as his eyes softly closed under Dorian’s warm touch. "Reading that to lute music could really draw a crowd. The bar'd make a fortune."

“Oh, that probably exists somewhere, yes. Though I’d bet I could get a leg up in that market.”

“So long as I get a cut, I’m happy to provide inspiration.” A long, soft sigh passed Lavellan’s lips as he relaxed into his lover’s lap. “You _know,_ ” he started, one hand fumbling blindly as he patted himself down, eventually slipping into his trouser pocket. “You never told me what this was about.” He removed Cassandra’s gift and, eyes still closed, waved it in the air. Dorian snatched it, reasonably gently, from his grip.

“This again?” He asked, letting out a long-suffering sigh. _“Very well._ I suppose I could practice my recital.” He made a noisy show of unfolding the paper and Lavellan cracked an eye open. “I could charm the mobs at the Winter Palace by waxing poetic. When you inevitably stir those noblemen into a frothing rage.”

“Touching.” Lavellan said, eyes closed once more. Dorian cleared his throat.

“How does love speak?” He recited, tone more languid as he stretched each flowing sentence. Lavellan didn’t look at first, but he half expected him to be gesturing grandly with his free hand for emphasis. That hand, contrary to what he’d imagined, came to lay against the crown of his head once more. He cracked an eye open again and found Dorian smiling, softly but sweetly, as he read the page. He opened both eyes fully, heart warm and sitting in his throat as he watched him, just barely paying attention to the poem itself.

 _Thus doth Love speak,_ and then Lavellan’s lips parted softly, partly in awe, before he chewed on the inside of one to catch it. He watched Dorian’s bright eyes glide haltingly across the parchment and he willed them to land on him once more. The poem sounded truer and more genuine coming from the other man’s lips than if he could have read it all himself. He didn’t need to know all of the words to glean their meaning; it was clear enough and he swallowed to feel the lump of his heart still in his throat. He could've kissed him if he wouldn't crumple into an injured mess immediately after. The poem was over and Dorian cast him a smile, less tender now that he wasn’t preoccupied. Lavellan cleared his throat and put on one of his own.

“It’s a bit cliche,” Dorian said, giving a vague shrug, “if you're well-read in the subject.”

“I liked it. Even if you just read it out, rather than explaining it.” Lavellan said, choked by a boyish, giddy excitement he couldn't define or push down. The warmth faded steadily from his chest; now, it soaked into his skin and dispersed elsewhere. “But it sounded nice.”

“You… didn’t understand it, then?”

“Not entirely,” Lavellan replied, “but I suppose I can enjoy something without knowing all its little hidden meanings.”

“True enough.” Dorian set the parchment aside before leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to his forehead. He spoke once more, voice now at a murmur. “Poetry by the fire _is_ quite romantic, but I think sleep is in order. I'll give you my in-depth analysis some other time.”

“If you insist.” Lavellan murmured, already a dead weight on Dorian’s lap. He had to be pushed off so the mage could lay beside him and wrap him up in both body and blanket. He found one of Dorian’s hands beneath their meager coverings and held tight to it, pinning it between his chest and his bruised hand. He willed some of that earlier warmth to pass through. Then, at least, he would know he wasn’t alone in this--ultimately terrifying--feeling. His eyes fell closed once more and, though he at first felt restless, he quickly traipsed into a night of pleasant dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good old reference to Love's Language By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. It's a sweet poem :)


	30. Mask the Eyes to Hide the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WEWH babeyyyy get ready for some long-ass chapters!

Lavellan's fingertips slid through through his fringe, featherlight, for what might’ve been the thirtieth time in the ten minutes he’d been left alone in front of his reflection. The hair was still damp with styling cream and it made his hands smell like spiced fruit. The movement stopped short once he decided it wasn't worth a mild scolding. Instead, he leaned both elbows on the vanity surface. It was uneven on its legs and the weight of his slumping made it teeter awkwardly, so he canted back against the padded seat instead. His twin reflection set his jaw to one side, tongue clicking as he wondered if Josephine would notice him getting drunk before the carriage ride to the palace. A mute beat came from his foot tapping fitfully against the sunbleached carpet and he caught the inside of his lip in his teeth. It was only a moment before he thought better than to ruin them by chewing the skin raw.

Behind him, the door creaked open and a work-flushed woman came forth, a hefty bag under her arm. Wordlessly, she let it _thump_ onto the vanity and Lavellan brought one hand to the underside of the table to steady it.

"Chin up." She ordered. He caught his own eye in the mirror and he looked himself over. Would they cover what remained of his vallaslin or emphasize them? Diminish the dark circles beneath his eyes? Make him into a blushing springtime virgin? Perhaps a spot of clown paint.

The woman pulled a cream from her bag and got to work smearing it over his skin, leaving his fate a mystery. He froze in place, acting an obedient canvas, but his knee still bounced as she worked away; dutiful and quick and silent. A pin held back his damp fringe from his forehead. A thick-bristled brush caked white with powder neared his skin, kicking up a cloud. When she neared his nose, the scent of lilac was overwhelming. Two puffs and there was a headache raising behind his eyes.

“Ah, there you are. Good.” Josephine said, her telltale rattled-but-working-around-it tone coming in at full force. He caught sight of her entrance in the mirror, eyes still on her writing pad as she slipped inside. Her hair was well worn-in and she hadn’t yet changed out of her travelling clothes. Overall, she looked frantic.

“I’ve hardly moved.” Lavellan said, matter-of-fact. He tried to not move his lips too much, should he anger the woman who was putting his face on. His head must have shifted because she placed a firm hand on his chin and weakly yanked it back into position. Josephine came to stand at his side, making eye-contact through the reflection in the mirror. Her sunken own drooping ones then lowered, darting across the parchment on her pad.

“You’ll be free to run off soon enough. It’ll just be hair and then…” She trailed off, still reading over the parchment blankly. Lavellan tilted his chin up as directed and the stylist dabbed something red-tinted on his lips. A gentle purse was ordered to smear the colour and then a tiny, soft brush blurred the edges. Lavellan was allowed to drop his chin once more. In the interim, he drew Josephine's rapt attention from her scrawled notes by a backhanded tap to her upper arm.

“Look, look,” he beckoned, lips pulling into a smile which creased his powder. He put his worn hands up, showing they were empty aside from the new blisters-turned-callouses. Then, in a calculated move, he grabbed from one palm and drew out a lily, seemingly from nowhere. In reality, it had been from the flower vase in the building’s entryway, but he’d nabbed one and tucked it away for just such a purpose.

He held it out to receive a meager chuckle. Still, Josephine took it to her nose and inhaled deep, seemingly relaxing for the first time in the many days since they’d left Skyhold. Lavellan didn't bother to hide how pleased he was with himself until the stylist needed him to turn his head forward once more.

“Very impressive show, Inquisitor. Thank you,” she drawled, setting the flower down across her writing pad. Lavellan smiled, now more reserved as he tilted his head back. He looked upwards and his eyes were lined with another petite brush. “If everything is alright here, I’ll be moving along.” Josephine said, putting on a simper even as the exhaustion rushed back into her features.

“Alright,” Lavellan muttered, sounding far-away. It took a great deal of concentration to not blink too much. “Do take a break when you’re able.” He instructed. The ministrations stopped and he was able to look around normally. He Josephine a stern look after he'd lolled his head in her direction, “I know you won’t, but please try.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” she sighed, not quite at melodrama.

“Have you eaten? Make sure you eat something. Don’t want you to faint before we even get inside. Perhaps you should have a drink before going in, too; I'm sure you can find something around here.” He insisted.

 _“Alright,”_ Josephine said, cutting him off, “I will take some time. The others are in this hall if you need them.” A gentle hand touched his shoulder in a brief goodbye before she sped out once more. The stylist, now given free reign of his attention, posed him once more. She took a pause once she’d finished, assessing her work with a discerning eye. He put on his prettiest smile and waited.

“All done. Don’t touch your face.” She ordered, unveiling a thick Orlesian accent. The inordinate assortment of little wood brushes disappeared into her bag and they jingled mutely together as she slung it back over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he started, her back already turned. She barely threw a hurried wave over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. He turned back to face his reflection, ghosting fingers over his skin and eyes. His brows were sharper and the brown of his eyes seemed more apparent. How handsome! He’d never been so _powdered_ before but he supposed he liked it. So long as he didn’t start to melt away the second he touched water.

He was taken from his reflection by a drafty chill spreading over his bare arms. Hugging himself, he pushed out of his chair, padding over tiny knolls; loose clumps of damp hair along the ground in a semicircle. He traipsed towards the spare bed, his striking red uniform laid out in wait. He paused just to stare at it for a long moment. Red was a good colour for him, evidently--at least according to prior coworkers--but that was more for deep-cut tunics that said _come hither_ or hair wraps to bring out his eyes. Never a military-style uniform to be worn in front of a reigning empress that was _also_ in front of a crowd of silently-jeering onlookers. Oh, if only they could see him now!

Just the thought of it started to make him second-guess, which in turn put him into a small panic. He’d only spoken in front of a rabble a handful of times and now he was meant to grin and make a strong impression lest the Inquisition crumple like a dainty handkerchief. He was a performer, he supposed, in a way. Just… more in intimate settings with two--three, at most--to watch; but what would be the difference if no one was going to heckle him aloud? It would be fine. He would be fine. It was alright, really!

He sat down in a slump on the edge of the bed, creasing the bright red jacket beside him. One of his hands scrubbed through his damp hair as his other--tempted to rub at his eyes--clutched at the pendant at his neck instead. It seemed to hum against his skin with a low energy, soothing his mana into place. At least he wouldn’t be at a risk for burning down the Winter Palace by _accident._

He’d come to terms with that distaste--and subsequent arson temptation--for Halamshiral after a few weeks’ moaning and complaining. Now, rather than disgust and petty dissonance, he was leaning more towards teenage-y ennui. He and the Winter Palace would put on a front and accept one another for the night; no murmurings of _ratty knife-ear_ or _inbred patrician_ (at least to one another’s faces) until the final curtain fell and the masks were taken off. Then, with an Empress saved and Orlais left to its own frilly devices, Lavellan could forget everything he’d stuffed into his brain over the past four months of preparation.

The energy he’d expend to spit at every pomp he passed would leave him destitute; he had little choice but to focus on the task at hand. Though he _would_ be doing some fantasizing if the time was afforded to him. Oh, the temptation of long baths and nights spent reading about anything other than appropriate terms of address for the Empress’s cousin three-times removed; Marquis Etienne Souvard. It was with a bitter frown that he knew it was _Your Grace._ He'd picked that up in-between those longer, less necessary words. The flowery bits of prose that every Orlesian author felt the need to include, if only to look down and laugh at the silly little half-illiterate elf boy. That's how it felt, anyway, when he had to ask around--Josephine, Dorian, or Varric; depending on who was nearest--for just what exactly _perfidious_ was supposed to mean. After a while, he just stopped asking.

His eyes fell to the tall boots at the foot of the bed. Varric had come through with his bargain and left the Antivan leather boots for him to take. Lavellan leaned over the edge to grab one and inspect more closely. He ran an appraising thumb over the hand-tooled seams and then traced the decorated rise. The toe and heel were well reinforced; all in all, a _very_ sexy pair of shoes to wear to a party. The not-so-sexy bit was how much he would have to break them in. Still, he was nothing if not resilient, and he would much rather break in stiff leather on even ground than cliffside. Even if it would leave him limping by the end of the night. _How nostalgic_ _,_ he thought with a boyish snicker.

He shook off his fugue and stood to change. A dagger would be an important--if awkward--thing to tuck in there. He left it out for the time being; perhaps he could smuggle it in his trousers more easily. Then, he'd only need a stop in the toilets. So long as he could _get_ a stop in the toilets.

The boots hugged tight to his feet; just as he remembered. The jacket on the bed looked up at him, eyeless, and placed whispered worries in the back of his mind. He could already imagining Josephine’s complaints if she saw him wearing it looking _creased._ He smoothed it out where it lay and then said a quiet prayer; the first of what was probably too few, given his occupation. It didn't do much to quell the resurfacing unease, but he could at least face the idea of changing into his trousers. Baby steps.

-

Dorian was having the time of his _life._ Why wouldn’t he be? He was all prettied up and watching Sera be physically restrained from gnawing the fingers off some poor woman come to do her hair. Not to mention, he was already getting a head start on his drinks for the evening. A pleasant buzz would certainly make it _far_ easier to stay standing around, surrounded by sniffling, would-be charlatans in ruffle collars. At least he didn’t need to wear one of those; he’d need plenty more to drink before a night like that.

He was already in his finery for the evening and though it wasn’t what he was used to, he supposed they could’ve done far worse. The majority of the uniforms could have been unfinished, for one. Or they could have a giant, lumbering and _very_ shirtless qunari in their midst. Oh. Wait.

Sera wriggled out of Blackwall’s grip and launched from her chair to escape the clutches of the stylist, who only wanted to do the job she’d been paid for. No one bothered to chase after her as she ran, giggling, into the hall. Just as she exited, Lavellan came stumbling in, looking a bit caught off-guard by the hasty brush-by.

Dorian sent him only a coy glance but he couldn’t help _pleading_ that he would be the one Lavellan was there for. He rejoiced silently when, ultimately, that was the case. He came sauntering over, picking up Dorian’s half-empty bottle of brandy (surprisingly cheap, considering he’d nabbed it from one of the Comte’s shelves), and gave it a whiff.

“Are you still going to be able to taste by the time the little cakes come out?” Lavellan asked, smiling sideways. It was a break from his more usual absent frown and _that_ was like a breath of fresh air. Especially with all the silent suffering floating around. Still, he found himself frowning at it.

“How are you doing?” He asked instead, keeping the worry from it. Lavellan looked _good._ His hair had been properly trimmed and _styled,_ and there was something especially striking about his eyes. He was sure someone had come and done his face up, but Dorian was perfectly willing to believe he simply had grown more handsome with time. Easy. Believable.

More than well-groomed and strikingly prince-like in his well filled-out uniform; he seemed _happy_ for the first time in a number of days leading up to the masquerade. Perhaps that was just in preparation for the Grand Game; ensuring he would appear relaxed at all times, well in advance for the event to come. Still, Dorian liked to think he could read him.

“Fine.” And that’s when Lavellan’s tells started to appear. His smile faltered an inch, then its accompanying warmth slipped from his eyes. “I’ve got new boots, see?” Lavellan gestured to them, the smile all but gone from his face. Dorian gave into his distraction and let out a low whistle for show.

 _“My,_ what boots.” He said, reaching for Lavellan’s arm. “Care for a stroll in those?” He tilted his head, nodding towards the door. Lavellan rushed to put on another smile but it was faltering even before it was all the way across his lips. Wordlessly, Dorian was led into the hall.

“I heard the Comte has a garden,” Lavellan chimed conversationally. Dorian looped an arm through his and then into his pocket, locking them together.

“And the location of this fabled garden?”

“Don’t know; I’m sure we’ll come across it.” Lavellan’s gaze latched onto every little furnishing--a decorative table, an upright clock, a tall vase--that they happened to pass. Dorian was silent, for his part, as he thought up just how to broach the topic of Lavellan’s recent… attitudes. Namely, his carefree smile which was so often absent and that weighty, uneven one taking its place. Something was wrong, Dorian knew, but it was a matter of bringing it up gently enough to be able to help. If he even could.

They passed a wall of windows and slowed. A small courtyard; bordered on all sides by the ivy-ridden stone of the manor in which they stayed. Its paths were dusted with snow, same as every other shape under the grey sky. The one twisted tree in the yard was tucked in a far corner, branches barren, though a single bird sat upon one arm. It darted from its perch to disappear with a puff of snow into a prickly bush lining the path. Lavellan stood close enough to press his nose up to the paned glass. One of his hands laid at the edge of the window while his other stayed gripping Dorian’s upper arm.

He watched Lavellan like that for a moment--unsmiling, but clearly content--and traced the line of his profile. The bridge of his nose was uneven, now, and not completely healed. It hadn’t changed anything for the worse, however.

“Is something the matter?” Lavellan asked, breath fogging against the chilled glass. Dorian stepped closer and, sparing him another small glance, looked out at the garden as well. “You seem worried.”

Dorian let out a sigh and a twin cloud sprouted upon the pane of glass. He wiped a space clean with one finger. Through it, he spotted a songbird darting back up to the tree. Distantly, it chirped.

“If you _must_ know what worries me,” he replied, “it’s your sudden proclivity for half-truths.”

“Is that what it is?” Lavellan muttered. Dorian hummed in affirmation. He caught sight of Lavellan’s faded reflection in the glass; the way his lips pulled to one side as he worried the inside of his cheek.

“I appreciate the thought, Dorian, but I don’t think this is the time for a heart-to-heart.” Lavellan replied, his voice low. Unconvinced, maybe.

“No?” He replied. “I can hardly think of a better time. We’re all dressed up for the occasion.” His pushing only made Lavellan give one long, slow blink that ended with a solemn pursing of his red-tinted lips.

“Maybe you’re right.” Lavellan said, lifting his head. His lips were now fixed into a firmer frown. “Forgive me; I spent so much time playing the naïve hero, I’ve forgotten my manners.” Dorian’s lips parted to reply but Lavellan cut him off.

“I should really check in with Josephine. We can talk about this some other time.” Lavellan slipped his arm from his grip and stepped away. His unbroken heels clacked against the hard floor all the way down the hall until it eventually faded back to silence. Then Dorian was alone.

Dread was quick to latch onto him. Regret swiftly followed. Regret at having pushed. Regret at having spoken at all. But then, what choice did he have? To let Lavellan’s gloom go apparently unnoticed? Lips drawn into a stiff frown, he looked to where Lavellan’s breath slowly faded from the glass.

“Nothing is true.” Cole said, startling Dorian from his abstraction. “The name is him but he doesn’t want it to be. The hurt--it’s coddled, coveted like a jewel--it’s all he knows. He thinks it’s payment.” Someone had taken the spirit’s wide-brimmed hat and dressed him up in the crimson Inquisition uniform. He almost looked like a regular young man; if not for the glassy, far-away gaze.

“Is he... alright?” Dorian asked tentatively, “do you know what’s wrong?”

“There’s... two of him. Maybe more. He’s trying to be the one they wanted so they won’t need to worry so much.” Cole cast his distant gaze towards the window, where Lavellan’s foggy breath was now gone. The bird appeared, hopping along the ground within the same pane. “Every step heavier, like sinking in the mud. Each day it’s slipping on a familiar pair of boots; an imposter in his own skin. You make it easier, so he’s afraid for you to see him.”

Dorian turned, folding his arms over his chest and creasing his jacket in the process. He watched as Cole pressed the pad of his index finger against the glass. He took it away but no imprint was left behind. The bird moved on, oblivious to its audience of one. Cole himself was much of the same.

“Can I do anything?” Dorian asked next, quieter this time.

“He thinks you’re one of them; that you need to see him pretend so you won’t see that it hurts. But you don’t.” Cole turned to him, head tilted. “He’ll see it when you show him.” Anyone else might’ve smiled, or perhaps given him a jaunty pat on the arm. Cole simply disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving Dorian to his lonesome once more.


	31. Wicked Ones Hide Their Blades: Boots, Boning, Bonnets; Ready to Strike With a Smile Unsheathed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually two separate ones combined, so it's extra long. The next chapter will be the finale to WEWH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy July!

The Winter Palace was already draped in darkness when Dorian arrived. He hopped out of the carriage and appraised the many lights and ornamental pieces of scenery lining the walk-up to the entrance. He was quickly shooed out of the way so that Solas and Cassandra could dismount, as well. Solas looked quite happy to walk ahead of them and explore the palace on his own accord. Dorian, however, hung back a step and fell into stride with the Seeker. Cassandra shuffled fitfully in the clutches of her stiff broadcloth uniform.

“At least there’s trousers,” she grumbled, responding to the amused glances he was sending her way.

“True enough!” He agreed, working hard to stay chipper. “Have you any idea when the others will be here?”

“No. I only know that the council will arrive next.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure there will be plenty time to find a corner to stand in. Look pretty, try the petit fours, et cetera.” Cassandra let out a sound like a weak laugh.

“Quite.” She muttered. They swept their way up the stairs to the palace, brushing by a few other early partygoers, all of them too absorbed to pay them any mind. They slipped indoors and to the vestibule, where they attempted put together their gleanings from past war table meetings and assign names to each branch off this new room. The Royal Wing and the Grand Library were both locked off, unfortunately, so they were left to wander the drab _Hall of Heroes_ instead. The tall portraits and gold lion statues were gauche, to say the least. Dorian thought they would make an especially dramatic improvised weapon, should the opportunity come to pass. Crushing someone beneath an ornate golden lion would be a great highlight for a biography.

The party grew more populated as the hour passed and, after some time spent humouring Dorian with dry half-chuckles and a few cracked smiles, Cassandra left him to his lonesome; her parting words were that she should be looking out for their Inquisitor’s arrival. Both her absence and her excuse to leave left Dorian with the unfortunate, bitter ache of _guilt._ At least his free time would afford him an opportunity to think up some way to apologize to Lavellan for his prying. Or else some way to push harder. The latter was less attractive; he hardly wanted to try his luck twice in one day. But the thought of it was intrusive, as was a prying feeling of _obligation_ in a way he wasn't accustomed. He had to find a way to fix things, lest this roiling of his gut consume him swifter than the spicy punch he’d acquired.

He’d settled for the gardens. The heat emanating off the palace had warmed them to be dewy with melted snow. The dead wet grass sunk underfoot as he crossed over a stone-lined area. Drink in hand, he leaned back against a tall rectangular planter and cast his gaze up to the sky. It was black and thick with night but unlike in Skyhold, there were no stars to be seen. The once speckled sky was a sight that, though he hadn’t seen it his entire life, had grown to be a comfort. A reassurance that he was but one small, simple man in a universe far greater than he could imagine. So maybe his transgressions didn’t matter so much.

He took a warming drink of his punch and shook off his train of thought. He needed to reel himself in; it wouldn't do to be waxing poetic about the stars when Lavellan needed him to light someone on fire. And, judging by the growing crowds and the passing murmurs, it seemed that that preoccupation would be coming sooner rather than later. Evidently, _someone_ had seen him arrive. By their utter disgust, it must’ve been an _excellent_ entrance. Now, it was just a matter of waiting patiently enough for Lavellan to come by. If he would at all. He drained his drink and tapped his foot, willing time to pass just a bit more quickly. The Empress’s ladies-in-waiting were a good sign. They slipped into the gardens and lingered near the entrance, doing as their title would suggest. Dorian watched them over the rim of his glass. The rest of the gardens, although idle chatter filled them, were doing the same; watching. Waiting.

The doors opened and Lavellan strutted through, Vivienne close at hand. They gave courteous bows just as the ladies-in-waiting did theirs, as if competing to see who could fit the most formality into one single ten-second hello. A few quiet words were exchanged in between polite simpers and then Lavellan was free-- more or less, given that Vivienne tugged him in a roundabout walk through the garden, greeting everyone she knew. Eventually, they closed in, saving best for last.

“Lord Pavus,” Vivienne greeted, “I see you’re endeavoring to become the life of the party.” Her painted lips pulled into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The powder on her face creased with the gesture.

“Naturally.” He replied. “What can I do for the both of you?”

“You wouldn’t have happened to see the Grand Library, would you?” Lavellan asked, tilting his head.

“I’m afraid not. Locked, it seems.”

“Ah. A shame; I’ve heard plenty about it. All those… special tomes and such.” Lavellan waved a dismissive hand, cutting himself off. “Oh well. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the chance to see it.” He glanced about the gardens, gaze lingering on the back wall for a long moment. When Dorian followed his gaze, he noticed a familiar young man in Inquisition red loitering near a large, hefty-looking trellis. He looked distracted; lost, even. It was that far-away gaze and his blonde hair that fell over his eyes despite the wax that was clearly holding it. Dorian looked back to his company, flashing a toothy smile of his own.

“This evening is full of disappointments, I’m afraid.” He replied, perhaps a bit too bitterly. Lavellan’s smile faltered an inch. Vivienne swooped in to stop any uncouth arguments before they could begin.

“Come, my dear. I’m sure the Duke will be free by now.” She said, instructing Lavellan to give her his arm once more. He followed obediently, though his eyes stayed on Dorian for a passing moment. “Do come to the vestibule when you’ve a moment, darling. I’d love to introduce you to a few friends out of Val Chevin.” Vivienne invited, pinning Dorian under her gaze. It said more than she let on; something along the lines of _don’t you dare ruin this, or so help me--_

“Of course. I’m sure we’d all get along famously.” He replied, keeping his tone even. He took a sip from his glass even though it was empty. Lavellan pulled away, walking Vivienne back inside the palace with one last lingering glance. Dorian, now alone, sunk with a sigh. He glanced towards the trellis. A flash of red was at the top of the broken balcony above it, then it was gone.

-

Lavellan was easy enough to find in the vestibule. At first, all Dorian had to do was follow the spots of bright red where the crowds parted. Then, when he had less of a vantage point, he chased after murmurs. He couldn’t help but cringe internally at the spiteful mumbles of _knife-ear_ and various sundry insults. Something about fucking halla, something about _lummoxes_ and _yokels,_ et al. For a moment, he was grateful to be one of the very few who knew Lavellan’s extended past. Nobles grumbling about Dalish was one thing, but _elven prostitutes_ would be another. The rumour mill was already tireless in its campaign of anonymous slander; more incitation wasn’t going to bring them anything but trouble.

He spared a glance over his shoulder while he scaled the stairs at the other end of the vestibule. He’d passed a few people in Inquisition red scattered around the palace. He’d not gone into the ballroom yet, but he was sure there were plenty already within; watching the dance floor for any conspicuous-looking Tevinters and the like. He’d spotted Solas somewhere along the way, as well as Blackwall. He didn’t bother to approach either of them.

Cassandra stood at the base of the westward stairs. She might as well have been a guard, given how sparse the party goers were within a wide radius around her glower. It left the stairs empty and easy for Dorian to take without being watched. He sent her a wave as he passed but the bored nod he received told him all he needed to know. At the top of the stairs were more Inquisition jackets; Cole stood in the--now unlocked--doorway to the Grand Library. Varric was chatting with Vivenne and Lavellan, who both looked quite tense. Varric himself was, as always, looking quite level-headed in comparison.

“Apologies for my lateness,” Dorian greeted, expectant in tone, “I didn’t realize we were throwing our own little soirée. I would’ve brought refreshments.” Varric gestured with an open hand towards him.

“See? Like I said, he showed.” He said, speaking mostly to Vivienne, who let out a tight sigh. Dorian bit his tongue and the snarky reply he had poised, if only to not draw any more ire upon himself. For now.

 _“Regardless,"_ she said pointedly, “I suggest haste. The court _will_ notice your absence, Inquisitor, but I will do all I’m able.” Lavellan gave her a nod.

“Of course,” he said, waving Dorian closer while stepping towards the library doors. Dorian followed, him and the Enchanter sharing a nod of courtesy as he passed. Following close at Lavellan’s back, he, Cole and Varric filed inside the library. The grand doors soothed shut at their backs with scarcely a click, silencing the party outside.

“Varric, Cole,” Lavellan whispered in the silence, gesturing for the two to go forth at the left side. He then turned, placing a hand at Dorian’s shoulder for a passing moment, as if to tag him, and then snuck forward. He kept to the right side of the entryway. They scaled a set of stairs and, then upon the level where the bookshelves began, crept through the aisles as quickly as they could manage without making a stir. Dorian caught his own reflection underfoot and he wondered privately why the Empress had sectioned off the library to the people. It was such a garish show of wealth; having so many looming shelves of books that were clearly untouched the higher one looked. Perhaps she was simply being wary of those with wandering fingers.

As they traipsed through the silent room, Dorian’s mind began to wander. He thought once more of what Cole had said to him hours earlier and for a moment he wondered if that memory was placed there. Cole had seemed to only unearth thoughts already in the mind, rather than put new ones in. But then again, with how nosy he tended to be, Dorian wouldn’t have been surprised by him giving some sort of _push._ Maker knew he needed it. His innately meddlesome side was at odds with the part of him that was _very_ hesitant to push his luck. He wouldn’t-- _couldn’t--_ risk what he’d gotten to with Lavellan; _whatever_ that was.

He watched the back of Lavellan’s head with a frown. How was he meant to put up a front and play the coy-but-refined lover when everything Lavellan did pushed him back to his basest instincts? To worry on a loop, making up what-if scenarios in the vacuum of his own mind. To melt into his every touch like the starved fool he was. He peeled off Dorian’s carefully defensive mask without so much as an apology. But now, leaving him bare, Lavellan seemed to be putting on a mask of his own. The thought was too frightening; being the only one between them that was truly _weak_ or _vulnerable._ He itched to step back into a more comfortable place, where things were lonely but safe and he didn't have to worry about his heart getting shredded into handsome little pieces. But if what Cole had said was true, perhaps things didn't have to be so painful.

Still, the thought of broaching the topic again made him uneasy, no matter the amount of introspection he went through. Not to mention his quota of heart-to-heart talks already being fulfilled tenfold.

Lavellan stopped short and Dorian nearly ran into his back. A hand was put up to keep quiet and the elf peeked around the edge of the bookshelf they were crouched behind. He gestured something; likely to the rogues across the room. Then Lavellan turned, pressing his spine to those of the books upon the shelf behind him.

“What is it?” Dorian asked in a whisper.

“Someone’s here.” Lavellan replied, glancing around. He peeked out once more, then snapped back. Dorian supposed he should’ve been more concerned. Lavellan patted himself down, slipping a knife from the tall shaft of his boot.

“What’s the plan?” He asked next.

“Haven’t got one.” Lavellan replied. “I’m working on it.” He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, massaging fitfully as if to conjure a plan from the empty space beneath it. Dorian shuffled around him to peek out at the supposed threat. The shape of them was vague, but there was definitely _someone_ a few aisles from them. They were picking over the shelves in rather a shifty manner. He heard a shuffling and Lavellan was peeking out below him.

“Are you alright?” He murmured, wanting to roll his eyes at himself. “I mean--are things going well? With the court, that is.” Maybe it was the punch getting to him. He could’ve _sworn_ he was usually more articulate. Given his track record of embarrassing himself in front of the Inquisitor, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Lavellan slipped back, leaning against the shelf once more. Dorian turned to face him, pinned with an incredulous look.

“Now?” Lavellan hissed in a whisper, “you want to do this _now?_ "

“Don’t answer, then,” Dorian whispered back, flippant. Lavellan’s face pulled into a scowl and Dorian wondered if he was _physically_ capable of foot-in-mouth. Before he could apologize, Lavellan’s eyes widened a fraction and he gripped a handful of Dorian’s jacket, pushing him flush with the shelf. Dorian froze in place as Lavellan watched something in the near distance. A few more moments and his grip lessened. As a bit of an afterthought, Lavellan smoothed his gloved hand over the creases he’d made.

“That solves that, I suppose,” Lavellan murmured, looking out once more. He made another gesture to Varric and Cole across the room. Slowly, he stood. Dorian kept his lips pursed shut for the moment, should he say something else to dig himself into a deeper hole. Lavellan spared him a quick glance. He wasn’t sure if he was being hopeful, seeing a quirk of remorse in the elf’s brow.

“The court is fine.” Lavellan said, still in a whisper. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Dorian’s upper arm. It squeezed gently; one, then two times. “This night will be a long one.” At that, Dorian gave him a sympathetic look, though it might’ve come off more like a wince. Lavellan’s hand fell away and, sparing a glance over his shoulder, he jerked his head towards the rest of the library set out before them. “Let’s keep going. Sordid secrets await.”

-

Together, the group spread out across the library. Lavellan picked through the shelves, watching closely for signs of movement. Their mystery man had wandered off, seemingly disappearing into thin air, but Lavellan stayed on guard. They reached a study and Varric lingered by one of the built-in bookshelves, skimming the spines with one leather finger. Cole moved to the far wall, where a delicately-curving arch sat carved into the stone. Expectantly, he watched it. Lavellan studied the small statues around the room. Tentatively, he picked up a stone statuette of a halla from under a desk.

“Where could that man have gone?” Dorian wondered aloud, leaning onto one of the marble lion statues, casting his gaze around the dimly-lit study.

“He’s still here.” Cole said, still watching the wall. Lavellan looked up, brows furrowed. “Watching. Waiting. He’s afraid.”

“Well, if I know anything about rich people with secrets,” Varric drawled, fingers drifting over the book spines, “it’s that there’s probably a hidden room somewhere.” He tugged on a nondescript, leatherbound spine. There was a rumbling, then, and the archway where Cole stood slid open. Varric shot Lavellan a pleased look.

“No way you planned that.” Dorian accused.

“True. It looked cool, though, right?” Varric replied. The party assembled at the archway, peering into the dark room they’d uncovered. Letting out a weak sigh, Lavellan shuffled to the front.

“I’ll take point,” he murmured, “if I get stabbed, you boys need’y make sure my coat doesn’t get ruined.”

“Yessir.” Varric chimed, peeking into the dark from around him. Lavellan ignited a weak ball of magefire in his hand to light the way ahead. He stepped into the room and looked around; the flickering firelight traipsed only so far as to outline vague shapes in the darkness. He took one, two, then three steps in. The air was thick and it laid still as the grave. He moved a few more steps and then found a desk laid out in front of him. He circled it, studying the documents sprawled out over top. He plucked up one of interest, tucking it into his trouser pocket.

He glanced up to the doorway, where he could still see the party lingering. They looked more like silhouettes, backed by the candlelight of the library. No one spoke.

“It’s a bit boring in here, if I’m honest.” Lavellan said, disturbing the tension. He headed back towards the door. Then, somewhere in the darkness beside it, there was a glimmer. As he took another step, the light soaked into the silhouette of a man tucked in against the archway. The glimmering was eyes; wide and white, with irises black in the flickering light. Lavellan stumbled back a step, letting out a yelp of surprise. The mystery man jumped but didn’t move otherwise.

“What is it?” Dorian asked, moving for the archway.

“Don’t come in.” Lavellan ordered, putting up his free hand. He brought the magefire closer, then approached the man with tentative steps once more. “Who are you?”

The man, who’d had one gloved hand clamped over his mouth, unfroze bit by bit. He wore a plain Orlesian mask swaddled in a dark cloth and the same sort of finery Lavellan had seen elsewhere. Nothing too grand as to be someone of particular note.

“Comte Bérenger, my lord,” the man replied, stuttering every few syllables. “Boniface Bérenger.” He corrected. Lavellan nodded slowly, trying to not spook him. The Comte's gloved hand was still curled tight against his jaw.

“You were in the Grand Library, weren’t you?” Lavellan asked. Some of the careful tension in his stance faded away. The Comte nodded swiftly.

“Why?” Lavellan asked next. The man reached haltingly for a tome tucked tight under one arm. Lavellan couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be, but it looked old. Worn.

“It’s the Célestin family heraldry, Your Worship. I’m a scholar, you see, and I had heard rumours that it was housed here.” Lavellan’s face didn’t shift an inch.

“...Alright.” He replied, both unknowing and uncaring of what the man was referring to. “Come, you should get out of here. It’s not safe.”

“Yes, Your Worship. I’m a supporter, you know, and I would not wish to get in your way,” the Comte let out an uneasy chuckle. Whether he was a supporter out of convenience was yet to be seen. Lavellan gestured with his free hand for him to come forth and he did so. “You’ve seen the blood, I’m sure. Nasty business.”

“Blood?” He verified, lukewarm. Lavellan had seen smears of it along the tile; perhaps this man knew more than he let on. The Comte’s wrinkled eyes widened an inch.

“Yes, blood. It’s all over the floors on the lower levels. I’ve been hearing murmurs, you know. Of servants disappearing.”

“Do share.” Lavellan encouraged, placing a gloved hand at the Comte’s shoulder and guiding him out of the darkened study. The party opened up to allow them out, still huddled at the mouth of the secret study. The Comte wore a stiff, wincingly uneasy expression faced by so many unfamiliar conspirators to the Inquisitor. They stopped a few long strides from the rest of the party. Lavellan extinguished his magefire and brushed off his hands.

“Yes, well, I’m sure you know that they’re elven. Shifty little people at the best of times. I usually wouldn’t pay much mind to their sort but with someone blundering the Game so completely--”

“Please, do get on with it.” Lavellan requested.

“--Yes.” The Comte cut himself off. Then, in a conspiratory manner, he leaned in to murmur, “if you ask me, it’s all quite suspect. Those elves, the blood. I think perhaps a sacrifice is at work. Old elven magic, and the like.” Lavellan let out a scoff, surprising himself. The Comte seemed a bit taken aback.

“Don’t let your allegiances blind you, my Lord,” the Comte implored, “those elves are up to something, I just know it.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship,” Lavellan said evenly, putting on a smile for reassurance, “I’ll be sure to look into it. Now, please, enjoy the evening.” The Comte lingered for a moment, gaze passing over the rest of the party. He hugged his stolen tome closer, then gave a courteous bow.

“Of course, Your Worship. Thank you, Your Worship.” He said. He turned on his wooden heel and headed for the door. Lavellan’s face quirked into a pensive frown. He spoke again once the Comte was out of earshot and the clacking of his steps faded away to silence.

“How do you think he got in?” He asked, looking to the party. They shared a glance. Varric gave a vague shrug.

“Fuck if I know,” he answered for them. “An old, rich family like this, though? Must have secret passages, or something.” Lavellan’s brow was set in puzzlement but a shake of his head alleviated it. Some mysteries would remain unsolved.

“Fair enough, I suppose,” he murmured, “let’s keep looking.”

-

The halla statuette slid into place and the runed door shifted open. At once, Lavellan was hit with a wave of heavy copper stench. His stomach turned as he stepped inside, careful to not be seen by the partygoers in the garden below. Dorian lingered, crouched at the railing, and looked down at where he had been a scarce twenty minutes earlier. Lavellan breathed a curse behind him, drawing his attention, and he snuck up to his side. The stink of blood hit him before he could ask what he’d found. Tentatively, Dorian followed him inside.

There were easily a half-dozen bodies. They were sprawled about in varying states, most with eyes open and glassy. Some of them had gaping mouths, as if in a silent scream. The blood had dried on their skin, but pools of the stuff were still wet beneath them in some places. From the deep red splotches on their clothing, it seemed they had each of them been stabbed. Lavellan removed a glove and felt one of their hands. The skin wasn’t quite cold. Expression drawn into a wince, he rose to his feet.

“Nasty business, this place.” Dorian murmured, watching Lavellan more than the bodies. He’d seen his fair share of cadavers. They both had. Still, it felt odd, to see them in such an inhostile-seeming place. Then to be stuffed, unceremoniously, into a storage closet, where the Maker couldn’t claim them. Lavellan murmured something under his breath and, two fingers and thumb pinched together, made a gesture over his chest. A blessing, perhaps.

“The first dance will be starting soon.” Lavellan said, changing the subject. "I'll have someone come by." He plucked a blood splattered document from the ground and tucked it into his pocket. As he did, the distant bell began to chime. They slipped out of the closet and back into the Grand Library, retracing the path back to the vestibule with swifter steps this time. They reached the tall doors and Lavellan, rather than stepping through, caught Dorian’s sleeve.

“Save a dance for me, would you?” He requested, putting on a weak smile.

“Of course.” Dorian replied, giving him a chaste peck on the lips. “Go on. You’ll want to be fashionably late.” Lavellan’s smile widened to something more real and for a moment, Dorian was cast back to his earlier turmoil again. He’d broach the topic some other time, when they weren’t in a nest of vipers. He could try to be patient.

“So long as I’m allowed to return.” Lavellan replied, one hand coming to lay against his chest. If they weren’t under a time limit with virtually unfixable makeup, he might’ve hoped for a cheeky make-out session.

“Always, my dear,” Dorian drawled. For a passing moment, Dorian realized how similar they were. More than their uneasy histories, or the way they now dressed. Everything Lavellan did--everything he _said--_ cloyed with unrestrained sincerity. He _felt_ and it showed through every gentle touch, no matter how he tried to hide himself; in the creasing of his brows or the pursing of his lips or the way his dark brown eyes danced back and forth, looking into his own. Dorian knew how much effort it took to put up a front and keep it there. But Lavellan? He made being masked look effortless. Each time another inch of _Lavellan_ was revealed, it only served to make him more of a mystery. It both charmed and confounded him.

The second bell chimed and it was now Lavellan’s turn to be chaste. He pressed a kiss to the top of Dorian’s head--where a smear of red couldn’t be seen--shot him a smile, and then slipped out through the doors. Now alone, Dorian sighed something blissful to himself and the empty stairwell. He lingered in the Grand Library’s entryway for a few more moments before he’d deemed it safe to step out. He could wait in the garden until Lavellan had need of him once more.


	32. The Weakest Burn the Brightest, Bereft of Heat but Bountiful in Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desecration of a chapel and a very camp reveal of treason. Perfect stuff for Orlesian theatre

The next time he and Dorian absconded, it was not so pleasant. There were far more bodies to be found and blessed over and _that_ was just in the first room they came across. All throughout the servants’ quarters and surrounding area were easily fifty or more bodies, all of them of various ages and races, though the vast majority were elven. Cassandra, happy though she seemed to have been whisked away from the ball, didn’t try to rush Lavellan through his blessings over each of them.

Between rites, the party cut down an equal sum of Venatori. It was reassuring, at least, to know that the Venatori were, in fact, trying to do something nefarious during the party. Otherwise, the entire night and the previous months spent planning would have been for nought. It was also fortunate that a few of them were warriors, rather than spellbinders. With Cassandra taking most of the hits to her shield, one along the way was easily dispensed and Lavellan could snatch up their longsword from where he huddled behind her on the front line. He could fight with a shield if he came across it. But there was nothing more unnatural than trying to channel his mana into something rotund and _shield-shaped._

While Bianca was one of the few special weapons that Leliana was able to smuggle inside the palace, Lavellan--the same as Bull--was not so lucky. However, Bull had the advantage of size over any opponent he came across. Any man whose skull fit between his hands could reliably be smushed into a smooth paste. Lavellan, meanwhile, was left with his personal dagger and whatever weapon he could improvise. A set of drapes here, a garden spade there. Truly, he hadn’t _lived_ until he’d garotted a Venatori with the chain on their hood. To be honest, it was less like garrotting and more like good old-fashioned _choking out,_ but it was a learning opportunity nonetheless. Insofar as the party was concerned, the entire night was grim and discouraging. Innocent servants lined the ground everywhere they walked and so far, nothing but payback and _learning experiences_ in their name would do to lift his spirits.

The eventual confrontation with the Harlequin and her subsequent grisly beheading helped to bring everything to a close. Still, Lavellan’s frown persisted. He couldn’t help but consider the many what-ifs. What if he had come south, rather than to Antiva? How close was he to meeting the Maker the same as these poor, nameless elves? How close had he been, prior to this duty thrust upon him, to dying in the crossfire of someone richer and being tossed away like so much rubbish? As Briala pulled him aside to discuss an alliance, he couldn’t help his mind wandering. How close had _she_ been to that same fate? Did it haunt her the same as him? It must, he thought. But she seemed no more bereaved over the loss of her _agents_ as someone playing a game of chess.

He watched her leave and he lingered on the balcony, face still fixed into an absentminded frown. The rest of the party came to his back, chatting amongst themselves. Tucking away his distress, he began the awkward descent to the ground. He braced his fall with his hands but was quick to brush the dust from them. If there was anything good to come from this evening, it was that he had been doing an _excellent_ job of keeping his uniform clean. Any blood splatter was, for the most part, minimal. It also was kept to the crimson broadcloth of the jacket, rather than the gold trim. He didn’t expect to wear this uniform ever again, but perhaps it _would_ survive the night after all.

They returned to the storage room that separated the carnage of the servants’ quarters from the rest of the party. They stored their weapons wherever able; concealing some, hiding others behind crates. They checked each other over to ensure no one had glaringly obvious viscera on their uniform before stepping out into the Hall of Heroes. Already, Lavellan’s course was charted for the ballroom. Both Dorian and Varric seemed perfectly happy to tag along.

“Perhaps you can investigate the trophy room for me,” Lavellan suggested, giving Cassandra a look of encouragement in the face of her clear hesitance. They paused at the top of the stairs, the doorway to said room within their sight, as well as the Chevaliers guarding it.

“I think you’re overestimating my charm.” Cassandra replied, eyes on the guards.

“What?” Varric croaked, “don’t be silly. You can be charming.” He murmured something afterwards that was, more likely than not, a joke at her expense.

“I agree! I have perfect faith in you.” Lavellan said, bumping her arm with his. She lolled her head to give him a scowl of contention but he was unwavering in that grinned look of encouragement.

“Worse comes to worse, you could always seduce them.” Dorian suggested offhandedly. Cassandra barely concealed her look of mute horror. They were moving once more and as soon as they passed behind a statue, Cassandra lingered. Lavellan gave her a thumbs-up before carrying on towards the ballroom, abandoning her to her task. The other two men stayed close behind.

The ballroom was already dense with people. As soon as Lavellan stepped inside, a masked woman--the Grand Duchess, he recognized after a moment--swept up to him.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” she drawled, offering him a dainty bow, “I wanted to welcome you to my party. We’ve met briefly already.”

“Of course, Your Highness. How could I forget?” He replied, simpering. She let out a quiet chortle with little humour to it. “What can I do for you?”

“Would you care for a dance?” She asked. Her eyes said it wasn’t optional. When he looked over his shoulder, Dorian and Varric had already wandered away. Sparing her a tight-lipped smile, he replied as smoothly as he could.

“It would be my pleasure.” He offered her his palm and she laid her hand daintily upon his. He walked with her down the stairs to the dance floor and then, in the fray, he placed his other hand at her upper back. She gripped his shoulder, palm laying just over the tender spot where he’d been pierced all those months ago. Then, after a beat, they began to step in time.

With each move was another question and Lavellan began to feel more like he was being interrogated than aided. It would be safer, he expected, if he kept coy and vague with each new inquiry.

“The security of the Empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.” He gave a sweeping bow in time to the song, standing parallel to Florianne. He looked up at her, finding her dull grey eyes on him from behind her Chalons mask. The entirety of her seemed so… _beige._ He could already hear Dorian disparaging her for a lack of personality. He resisted the urge to glance up at the overlook of the dance floor to see if he was correct.

“Is that what we both want, Your Highness? Security?” She let out another humourless laugh and he twirled her, holding loosely to her hand. Just enough to keep her within arms’ reach. She barely gripped him back, expecting him to both lead their dance and follow her moves.

“There is no such thing in the Winter Palace,” she drawled, “here, everyone is alone. Which is why a man such as yourself is a matter of concern to plenty.”

“Is that what I am to you?” He asked. The world spun in his periphery as they moved around the dance floor, the other partners keeping in time. They made a clockwise path along the perimeter, eyes on one another throughout.

“That remains to be seen.” She replied evenly, “I wonder--you have been everywhere in the palace; seen the machinations at work behind every closed door. Have you decided yet, who is friend and who is foe?”

“Like you said, Your Highness,” they circled one another now, arms outstretched. He counted each step in the back of his mind. “In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone.” She made a hum of acknowledgement. He turned, dipping her low to the ground. A quiet clamour of pleased nobles at the sidelines clapped along as the couples finished their dance. He hoisted her back up in another move and then they were walking the length of the dance floor.

“You must hurry,” she implored, “Gaspard will strike tonight. You must ensure that his plan does not come to fruition.”

“What do you propose I do?”

“Go to the royal wing gardens. The captain of my brother’s mercenaries is there,” they came to stand at the centre of the floor and they turned to parallel. “I’m sure you can persuade him to understand. For Orlais.” They bowed, a mixture of murmurs and applause on the balconies around them for the band.

“For Orlais.” He repeated. Slipping away from her, he scaled the stairs on the side of the ballroom nearest the terraces. Swiftly, his council was upon him.

“Was that…?” Leliana started, looking over his shoulder to where Florianne was climbing the stairs at the other side of the ballroom.

“Yep,” Lavellan replied, popping the ‘p’, “she wanted to chat. Really stressed the idea that I’m alone and everyone’s out to get me. Then she gave me this _wonderful_ tip about the royal wing gardens.” He drawled. Someone passed by with a tray of drinks and his gaze followed wishfully.

“You believe she’s up to something?” Josephine asked, having caught the latter part of the talk. Cullen was close behind. Perhaps Lavellan was swayed by Dorian's past wisdom about too-dull people being undeserving of trust. Or perhaps he was simply hoping for a quick resolution.

“No idea, but she _did_ implicate her brother.” Lavellan said, eyes snapping to the diplomat.

“Mm. Not surprising; I have no doubt that Florianne would sell out her own brother if it meant saving her skin.” Leliana murmured.

“Save it from what?” Cullen piped up, his voice low.

“I suppose I’ll stop by the gardens to find out.” Lavellan said, “anyone have any requests while I’m there? I’m sure I could steal some drapes.”

“I know you’re joking, Inquisitor,” Josephine sighed, “but _please_ don’t steal anything.” Leliana laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave her a soothing smile.

“Please, Josie,” she simpered, keeping her voice light. She looked back to Lavellan, “drapes would be so impractical. You’d best go for something smaller. Silverware?” Josephine sighed once more at the same instant that Lavellan gave a hearty nod.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Stay on guard, you three. Whatever’s afoot, I think it’ll be coming to a climax quite soon.” He warned.

-

The rift snapped closed and the courtyard fell still once more. The mercenary wriggled in his binds, eyes wide as he looked around.

“Holy shit--” he breathed, wriggling a bit more, “ _\--demons!_ Those were demons, weren’t they? How--why the _fuck_ are there demons in the Winter-fucking-Palace?” he huffed, face wound up in a sneer. Lavellan slipped the knife from his boot and sliced through the mercenary’s binds. Finally, a man of taste. A _Fereldan._

“Well spotted,” Lavellan replied, forcing gleaming cheer into his tone even as he slouched from the effort it took to stand, “those _were_ demons.” He plunged his pilfered greatsword into the cold earth and offered the man a hand. It wouldn’t do much good to be flailing himself around with a too-heavy sword in the middle of the battle, so it was time to say his goodbyes. He could use his smaller blade and cast spells where needed. And, should all else fail, he could hide behind Varric.

“I should’ve asked for more money,” the man grumbled, “fuckin’ ponzy inbreds--that’s the _last_ time I work for a Great-Duke or whatever the hell…” he trailed off into unintelligible, spiteful murmurs.

“Awh, you poor man. Tell you what; the Inquisition could use mercenaries. Even just someone to testify against Gaspard, should we need it.”

“Done.” The man agreed swiftly, “anywhere’s better than here. You want me to sing the bloody Chant in my breeches? You want me to do a dance for the Empress? I’ll do it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lavellan gave him a clap on the arm. “How about we settle for finding the way out of here first?” He pushed the man along and Cassandra took up point. Lavellan hung back in a cluster alongside the mage and archer.

“Don’t think the Grand Duchess will be very happy with you for ruining her plans.” Varric sighed. “Y’know, you might want to give just _dying_ a try sometime. When the world isn’t hanging in the balance, I mean. Probably less effort.”

“I think you’re right about that.” Lavellan chimed, smiling despite himself. They had a culprit, which meant he had a clear enemy. Which meant the evening was going to be over soon; one way or the other. The night was drawn out _long_ past the elf’s bedtime and he was suffering for it. For a morally loose leader of a world-saving faction, he could be quite the fusspot.

“Well, if that’s what you’re going for, I think we’d better coordinate,” Dorian sighed, “I’ll not be stuck in this world if you’ll be taking the quick way out. I had a taste of that existence once, and an afternoon of it was quite enough for me, thank you.”

“Awh, and you’d miss me.” Lavellan accused, hitting his upper arm playfully.

“If you’d like.” Dorian replied, swatting his hand away.

“On guard,” Cassandra warned, unsheathing her blade. “Venatori straight ahead.” Lavellan removed his own blade, his other hand covering his mouth for one long yawn. Cassandra pushed into the fray, cutting a path into the chapel. Lavellan hung back with the others, ensuring their new Fereldan friend wasn’t hit by anything. Lavellan put himself on one side, Varric on the other. It left Lavellan’s right side open to attack, but it seemed Cassandra was drawing most of the attention.

There was a puff of smoke in a darker corner of the chapel room and Lavellan steeled himself, trading out his knife for a lit candelabra within reach. He stood his ground and listened close for the sound of footsteps or _anything_ to tell him where the dual-wielder was going. It felt a bit like hunting for an insect. As soon as he heard the sound of their stealth terminating nearby, he was already winding up to swing. The puff of smoke guided his hand and he struck the Venatori down, smearing hot wax and singing little holes in the cloth of their armor as he did.

The mercenary and Varric both jumped as Lavellan whipped the rogue into a mess of wax and blood scarcely a stride in front of them; their approach having been unnoticed. Lavellan supposed he could’ve called it out before going absolutely ham with his improvised weapon. He wrenched the candelabra from where the candle pikes had cut into their flesh and set it back where he’d found it. He even went through the trouble of plucking up the candles to replace on the bloodied stands. They were disfigured in places and mostly burnt out, but he was doing what he could.

By the time Lavellan turned back around, the rest of the Venatori were all but eviscerated; like little artful splatters along the (admittedly wax-splattered) pews. Something felt very poetic about the blood of Tevinter cultists being spilled in an Andrastian place of worship. Lavellan didn’t know for sure; he wasn't familiar with the canticles. Looking around with hands on his hips, he let out a puff of breath.

“That’s that, then,” he murmured, brushing off his hands. “Let’s see if we can’t beat Florianne to the punch.”

The ballroom was alight with chatter as they stepped back inside. Across the room, Lavellan could see the Grand Duchess making her way through the crowd at her brother’s side. He caught her eye as she passed. She hardly flinched.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen hissed, already a stride away. “The Empress will be making her address soon. What did you find?”

“It’s Florianne. Get our men to guard the Empress,” Lavellan replied, brushing past him. Cullen breathed a curse and said a swift _yes, Your Worship,_ pushing through the crowd to give the order. Lavellan slipped between partygoers, eyes on Florianne the entire time. The music on the dance floor swelled in the background and was followed by a clamour of applause. The ballroom was stuffed with guests; each person attempting to be _someone_ was intent on viewing the Empress’s address before traipsing back to where they would drink the rest of the night away.

Empress Celene came to stand at the terrace at the front of the ballroom, where Lavellan had first greeted her. The people grew quiet as she began her address and Lavellan had to move sideways to slip through them. Florianne was already at her side. The people around him wouldn’t budge quickly enough and it felt like being bogged down in sand. The heat of a hundred too many people in the room pressed in upon him and he pushed more fervently through. He wasn’t going to get there in time.

“Pardon me, Your Radiance!” He said, forcing some small part of his Willpower into his voice to help command the attention of the stuffed room. The crowd around him parted as he spoke. He let out a relieved breath and walked more freely to the Empress’s side. She canted her head, giving him a mild look of feigned surprise.

“Inquisitor,” she drawled, “whatever is the meaning of this?” Her tone called for him to continue regardless.

“Apologies,” he said, a bit breathless. “I’m afraid I must interrupt. I’ve been all over the palace. It seems that one party has been working tirelessly this evening to…” he paused a beat, his tired-out mind stuttering. If anyone asked, he’d say it was for dramatic effect. “...Commit _blackest treason._ ” His eyes fell on the Grand Duchess. Slightly, almost imperceptibly, she moved back a step. Towards the balcony doors.

“As you say, my Lord,” Celene said, egging him on. There was something devious in her eyes. Hungry for blood, or whatever else she could get a taste of. “What are the charges?”

“I’m glad you asked!” He replied. He might’ve clapped a hand on her shoulder if the one gesture wouldn’t have drowned Josephine in reparations for decades to come. He moved around to the other side of the Empress, placing himself between her and the Grand Duchess. As he did, he put on the pose of a showman. He wanted this party done soon, but the horrible attention-seeker in him pleaded to at least make it a worthwhile ending. To put on a show for the convenient audience.

“This betrayer--this _scheming louse--_ ” he thought to mirror that dry Nevarran stage play Josephine had made him study; if only to show her that he had, in fact, been listening to Varric and Cassandra’s rendition of it. He gestured grandly, facing the crowd more than the Empress to his right.

“--they have defiled the Winter Palace. Smuggled agents of Tevinter inside, endangering the lives of your _many_ esteemed guests.” He gave a sweeping gesture to the people, who gave a perfect gasp of horror at the implication. “They are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, using subterfuge as their tool of choice in their attempt to end your life,” he looked to Celene, “and plunge Orlais into chaos.”

“Please, reveal this traitor to us.” Celene requested, even and expectant. Lavellan looked to his other side, where Florianne was quietly steaming. He stayed on edge, ready should she pull a blade on him in an act of retaliation.

“Grand Duchess Florianne,” he said, drawing another dramatic gasp from the audience. Women were already fanning themselves from the heat, but he might’ve heard a cry as someone fainted near the back. He could already imagine the gaudy puppet shows; full of lightly-offensive caricatures and a boatload of misquotes. Oh, Orlais.

“What say you in your defense?” Her lips stayed pursed tight. Then, after a moment, she seemed to sink with a soft sigh. She covered it by raising her chin snootily.

“It’s true.” She said, more reluctant to put on a show. Still, those who heard it carried the news back through the audience by hushed whispers.

“Cousin?” Celene breathed, almost sounding surprised. Narrowly.

“Do as you will, Inquisitor.” Florianne said, raising her voice. “You’ve won.” Lavellan allowed a pleased little smile to cross his lips, waving over a few soldiers to escort the Grand Duchess from the palace. The place fell into chaotic murmurs immediately and, under the cover of the noise, the Empress leaned an inch closer to the elf's ear.

“A word, Inquisitor.” She said. Obediently, Lavellan trailed behind her to the balcony. Gaspard and Briala came to join, the former already prepared to throw a fit.

-

It still felt unreal, sitting under the Inquisitor's gaze as he so often seemed to be. Dorian was starting to think Lavellan was doing all this just to drive him absolutely mad. It suited him; the stupid, handsome bastard--though, if he was honest, he could hardly blame him for reaching towards something more like _casual flirtation_ to brush off... everything.

Lavellan must’ve known what he could do to him with only a look. It was a cruel notion, trying to rile him up when there was nought a chance they would have the chance to act on it. Some sort of come-hither glance from behind a sip of wine, in what remained of the Empress's ball, a provocative smile or two from behind the veil of passers-by… Dorian had assumed, at first, that he was imagining things. That those coy smiles and flirty glances were a trick of the glittery light in the ballroom. The mindless, lighthearted dance of I-wink-you-fluster was a pleasant change and even better entertainment than standing around, humming and hawing, eating avant-garde Orlesian food and little frilly cakes.

Once Lavellan slipped away, Dorian couldn't help but to feel a bit disappointed. So long as his _entertainment_ hadn't left for business, that is. He'd test the waters, listen for the murmurs to come on the details of the meager escape. To know how subtle Lavellan acted and with whom he might be sneaking away to see. _That strange mage-woman,_ and other, less-savoury names, it seemed. Morrigan.

Dorian scoped out the lone balcony for a few long seconds, managing a courteous enough brush-by with _that terrible witch in purple,_ and then their game was back on.

“You haven’t forgotten about the party inside, have you?” He asked, drawing Lavellan from his reverie. In actuality, the fugue was a cover for him falling asleep on his feet, chin pressed hard into his palm. Lavellan dropped his hand, letting them both hang over the balustrade. He spared Dorian a droopy-eyed glance over his shoulder.

“Unfortunately not,” he murmured, slurring now that the evening settled around him and he no longer had the rush of _Maker, the entire continent is depending on me_ to keep him going. A drink entered his periphery and he took it up with a grateful nod.

“I don’t suppose you’d be one for Tevinter parties, then.” Dorian said, taking a sip of his own off-red drink. “It’s about the same as this. The murders are a bit more public, typically.”

“Mm. Doesn’t sound too bad, so long as I’m not there to save anyone’s life. I’ve had enough of these aristocrats thinking I owe them something,” Lavellan started to grumble, gripping his glass tight with a spiteful, sleepy frown.

“I’d normally advise you to keep the talk of rebellion to a minimum, but seeing as you _literally_ saved the day, I’d think you get a pass.”

“I’d better,” Lavellan spat, draining a portion of his drink, “they can’t expect me to see all their dirty little secrets on full display and still have an _ounce_ of pity for them, one way or another.”

“But the naked man was _quite_ entertaining, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, of course. Doesn’t mean I made the right decision.” Lavellan went to take another drink but paused, rim of his glass to his lips. He was quiet for a moment before he glanced more fully in Dorian’s direction. “Do _you_ think I made the right decision?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replied evenly, “politics aren’t really my subject.”

“Bullshit.” Lavellan murmured, taking the sip he’d intended.

 _"Regardless,”_ Dorian said pointedly, “you achieved your goal; Orlais lives to see another day. Perhaps even a year! Wouldn’t that be novel?”

“Far-fetched, maybe.”

“What is it?” Dorian asked, shuffling a step closer, fighting to meet his gaze. “What's bothering you? What people will say? What people will think? That you’ll be judged by historians, hundreds of years for now, for making the most of an already parochial, self-sabotaging system?”

“That’s not--” Lavellan’s brow set, “--I just want to do right by the _people,_ Dorian. The Orlesian peasants, or--or at _least_ people like the ones in Sahrnia. The ones who didn’t ask for this whole thing. Who deserve better than to be used as fodder in a war they’ll get nothing out of.” Lavellan’s frown turned softer, less spiteful. “I just want people to have hope. And I want children to live without having to worry about food or having a home. Why is that too much to ask?”

“There’s that bleeding heart again,” Dorian murmured, though it wasn’t disparaging or cruel in intention. Lavellan leaned onto his elbows, holding his glass over the precipice of the railing. Dorian’s gloved hand laid on his shoulder, then smoothed over his decorated jacket to rub a soothing circle along his back. Lavellan sank at the action and he couldn’t help a small smile.

“... For what it’s worth, I think you did a fine job. The civil war is over now, and let’s not forget that you stopped an _innumerably_ worse war from beginning at the very same soiree. Worth celebrating, I’d say.” Lavellan only hummed vaguely, chasing it with another pull of his wine.

“It’s…” Lavellan spoke up only to trail off, "... terrible, isn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"The wine." That tiny smile crossed the elf's lips and Dorian took it as a victory, whether or not it was his own doing. "You forget what it tastes like already?" It was probably the exhaustion of the day that made Dorian want to frown and accuse him of being a terror. So what if he drank the stuff like water? He settled for kissing his teeth and letting out a defensive, _"no,"_ that wasn't at all convincing. With the way it made Lavellan giggle, he wasn't sure that hadn't been his intention in the first place.

The awkward weight of what _he_ knew _Lavellan_ knew was a deeper problem still sat on his shoulders. If anyone else called him an alcoholic, he'd probably come up with something snippy enough to keep the stubborn truth at a distance. The reality that Lavellan noticed, despite him, the truth so openly on display was... uncomfortable. And something he'd gladly _not_ think on later, thank you very much.

Lavellan shifted to face him more fully, an elbow propped up on the railing. He set aside his own wine, forgetting it, and let his newly free hand slip from the mage's chest down to his hip. Dorian couldn’t stop his breath catching, so he covered it with a tipsy cough. At least that helped to shrug off the embarrassing reminder of his own bad habits. The little tilt of his head and the self-satisfied smile--now, what had he been thinking about?

“Need a reminder?” Lavellan asked next, leaning too close. Despite his best efforts, a barely-there sigh (too wistful for his own liking; what was he, a schoolboy?) escaped Dorian’s lips and he froze in place, awaiting attention and... _whatever_ the evening's passing touches and come-hither glances were building up to. Rationally, he knew he was going to be disappointed. But Maker, Lavellan’s lips were hot and they tasted like the wine; sweet, acerbic and like blackberry, and he found himself getting his hopes up regardless.

“Didn’t you promise me a dance?” Lavellan asked against his lips, leaving him needy with another small kiss.

“I don’t recall _promising,_ ” he corrected, “but I suppose I owe you. Just this once.”

“Do you know the Antivan Six-Step?” Lavellan asked, looking hopeful and ready to tease the life out of him. Dorian set his glass down on the railing and then stepped away. He held his arms open and his palms out, ready to be instructed.


	33. The Same Song, Played in Reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one might hurt your feelings but i dont know bc i've edited it so many times it doesn't look like words anymore

The sun was rising later these days. By the time Skyhold’s gates opened to welcome inside another league of refugees, the sun had barely risen above the eastern peaks. The courtyard, as a result, was shades of orange and cool blue. Cullen stood beside the gate, already in his usual armor. Lavellan stood next to him, wrapped in a knit blanket with a cup of steaming tea in one hand. Cullen looked more like the Inquisitor, between the two of them. A few of the common folk even made the mistake of sending their thanks and gracious hugs to the commander, rather than the elf beside him. Lavellan didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you sure there’ll be enough beds?” He asked, something like the fourth time. It seemed the people just kept _coming._ Skyhold was large, to be sure, but it was a marvel just where the people were being tucked away.

 _“Yes,_ Inquisitor.” Cullen confirmed once more, sparing a courteous smile and nod of his head to a passing widow and her rowdy sons. “We can take up to a hundred more. We’ve repaired enough wings to fit as many beds.” Lavellan took a drink of his tea and set his brow in lukewarm mistrust. He had no doubt Cullen was entirely correct--he was too particular about such details; double- and triple-checking, and such--but he was anxious nonetheless. The last thing he wanted was to turn someone away; it might as well be a death sentence, given the location.

“Blackwall has been kind enough to lend his expertise in training our soldiers. It’s been excellent help in fighting darkspawn, especially in the Approach.” Cullen said, broaching the silence with a clear attempt to lighten Lavellan’s mood. It… was a bit too tactical to succeed.

“That’s good.” Lavellan replied, regardless, “I’m glad he’s getting up to something.”

“Rather than… brooding?” Cullen supplied, lowering his voice.

“Rather than that, yeah.” Lavellan replied, taking another drink from his cup tucked in his cherishing hands.

“I’m sure it’ll be good for our new recruits to meet a proper Warden. Perhaps it’ll give them something to look up to.”

“Hopefully.” Lavellan muttered. A distant barking had him perking up.

“Inquisitor, ser!” Among the people entering, a young lady and her dog caught his attention. She waved full-bodily, beckoning Lavellan closer. A grin already sprouting, he slipped through the throng of refugees to meet her. Immediately, the dog let out a string of barks and stood on its back legs, front paws upon Lavellan’s shoulders. He kept his tea steady in one hand, his other coming to scrub a hand through her thick fur.

“Aw,” he cooed, turning his head to avoid kisses to the mouth, “hello again, beautiful!”

“She remembers you,” the girl said. She ordered the dog off with a stern _down, Tara,_ and Lavellan was free to use his other arm again. “You’re her favourite elf, I think.”

“I’m honoured,” he replied in earnest. A tall, thickly-bearded man lingered at the girl’s side and Lavellan snapped to attention, offering the man a bow. “You must be her father. Inquisitor Lavellan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The sallow, thin-cheeked man offered a small smile.

“The pleasure’s mine, Your Worship,” he said, his voice soft and raw with kindness. The man looked down to his daughter, who watched the both of them with a self-satisfied smile. “Agathe,” he reminded, encouraging.

“Yeah, papa,” she murmured. She cast her hazel-brown eyes up towards Lavellan and held out the end of her dog’s leash. “Father and I… wanted to give you Tara.”

“Give her to me?” Lavellan repeated, bug-eyed as he glanced to the offered leash. The girl--Agathe--looked between her father and the the leash once more. A small, determined frown crossed her lips.

“As a soldier. You have soldiers, no? I want Tara to join.” She wiggled the leash, a bit more insistent. Lavellan reached out a tentative hand.

“Why?” He asked, looking more towards her father. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Papa can’t join, but you need to win.” She supplied. She pressed the leather cord into his palm and her lower lip trembled. “You’ll take good care of her, right?”

“Yes, I--”

“Take her for walks every day. She needs one in the morning and one at night and she needs baths if she gets dirty. Make sure she eats her breakfast and don’t feed her too many table scraps or she’ll get too big.” Her high voice grew thick with unshed tears and Lavellan almost fought to give the leash back to her.

“You need to make sure she’s happy so she can help you win. You need to fix everything, okay?” Mutely, Lavellan nodded. She sniffled, wiping at her nose with one thin arm. Her father’s well-worn hand dwarfed her jutting shoulder as he drew her in close to his hip.

“Thank you, Your Worship.” He said softly. Then, gently, he bent down onto one knee and ruffled Tara’s fur. He pressed a kiss to her head and told her to sit. Obediently, Tara hunched back on her legs and watched him draw back. She panted with her mouth open, wide eyes following her owners as they gave one last bow and parted to follow the other refugees into the nearest sheltered wing. Tara whined, low in her throat, and tapped her front paws along the ground. Lavellan crouched at her side and buried one hand deep in the fur of her scruff.

-

Tara sprawled out along the floor beside the fire, body rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths. She was already dozing after her evening walk around the battlements. On his bed, Lavellan gathered together his collection of requisitions. His pile of paperwork was significantly thinner with no Winter Palace-related items to flip through. He nearly missed the feeling of _busy-ness_ it brought.

He laced his hands over his abdomen and stared into the flames for a long moment, creeping unease threatening his gut. Morrigan’s recent input as to the next step in their battle had put him more on-edge than it should have. Not so much in the I-would-rather-be-killed-or-maimed-in-battle-than-do-this way the Winter Palace had been; grueling, though still necessary. It was the _elfyness_ of it all. For one, it reminded him of his own clan, which he didn’t need. They'd not contacted him since his initial letter and he was starting to make up all sorts of scenarios. Aside from that? If it was up to him, he would keep all things Elven-related--ancient or no--from the light of the Inquisition’s story. They had the unfortunate habit of ruining everything they touched, and he hardly trusted the greedy fingers of the Chantry to handle Elven involvement with any measure of grace.

He hadn’t realized he was chewing the inside of his lip until he tasted blood. He was shaken from his reverie, setting aside his documents as originally intended. He’d had enough of work for the evening; perhaps he’d get around to finally tidying the lower level of his quarters. Those discarded planks still sat along the floor in such an unappealing way. They called out to him each time he passed: _please, Lavellan; tuck us away somewhere else so that we might bother someone different._

He slipped from his bed and dropped the parchment upon his desk. He knelt at Tara’s side to ruffle her fur with his free, ink-smudged hands. Her head lifted in response; giving him a mopey, slow look before she relaxed once more.

“I know, _da’sa_ _,”_ he murmured, running a more soothing hand over her back. “I miss my family, too. I promise you’ll see them again once this is over.” She let out a low sound, somewhere between a whine and a wheeze, and rolled over so that he would rub along her flank. He scratched where he went and her rear leg kicked comically fast.

“Now, what’s this? Ran out and got yourself someone new to keep the bed warm?” Dorian asked, startling him from his task. Glancing up, Lavellan found him leaning against the banister to his stairs. He’d not heard him enter. He’d have to bring that up with Leliana; perhaps they could install a bell chime. Or a purposefully squeaky floorboard.

“It’s Tara,” he replied, turning his attention back to her. She had all but gone limp, though her wide brown eyes still watched him needily. “Her owner left her to me.”

“That girl, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s steps were muffled by the rug as he strode to Lavellan’s side.

“I’m surprised you remember.” Dorian only let out a vague hum in reply. When he stayed standing beside him, Lavellan cast his gaze up in his direction. He seemed… serious. “Wanna pet her?” He asked, hoping to at least fill the silence.

“No, thank you,” Dorian replied, almost in a laugh. Lavellan stopped running his hands through her fur and she wriggled, one paw searching for some part of him to ask insistently for him, in her own way, to continue.

“What can I do for you?” He asked next.

“I wanted to chat about something.” Dorian said to clarify, though it was hardly needed, “that matter I brought up at the Winter Palace, if you’ll recall.” Pushing on his knee, Lavellan stood. Tara gave up begging for attention once he moved away from her and it would have required her to leave the fire.

“Yes, I remember.” Lavellan replied, not elaborating.

“Well,” Dorian started, hiding the way he scrambled in the face of the other man’s ambivalence. He’d be carrying the heavy conversation, then. Not his preferred position. “I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m here for you.” He cleared his throat, already wishing to wrap things up.

“I know you are, Dorian,” Lavellan said, lolling his head to the side. “What’s this about, really?” Dorian pressed his lips shut, remembering what Cole had told him.

“You have a lot on your plate, my dear,” he reminded, voice lowering an inch, “it’s quite the burden, to play the hero for so many people. But you don’t have to do that for me.” Lavellan's expression faltered peculiarly for a moment and he forced a weak smile. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into the other man; perhaps he was easier to read than he’d realized.

“I would’ve thought that was something you’d like,” he replied lamely, “all brute strength and charity. Inquisitor-ness.” Dorian let out a hum of agreement.

“While I do appreciate a bit of brute strength, it’s not the _Inquisitor_ I’m here for.”

“No?”

“Hardly. I’m here for Lavellan.” He received a hesitant nod.

“...Right.” Lavellan replied, watching him with some hesitant expectancy. There had to be more, right? Dorian wasn’t the sort to come strutting into his room just to check up.

“As such, I _would_ like to know what’s caused a shift in your attitude.” Dorian said, folding his arms over his chest. Ah. There it was. “So long as you’re willing to share.” Lavellan gave a halting nod. He stepped away, turning to hide his wringing hands and hopefully get some fresh air from the conversation.

“I suppose I could,” Lavellan said, trying to cover his unease. He hid his lame attempt at escape by tidying his bureau and then his vanity. He replaced the decorative pillows on his sofa, fingers digging tight into them while he had them in his grip. Being found out--being looked out for--it rose embarrassment in his gut. Lavellan felt unbelievably foolish; coveting his own misery, not allowing anyone to take it from him. Like a child hoarding toys but this was neither entertaining nor well-wanted. But Dorian was here, pushing something serious and keeping to it. It would be so _easy_ to just spill his guts for him and move on.

“You’re quite right.” Lavellan said, still choosing his words carefully, even with the assurances. Dorian had said it was alright, but he had yet to see whether that was courtesy alone. “I’ve been…” he trailed off. “...Well, I’ve been lying. That’s all there is to it.” His nervous tidying slowed and then he was just wringing his hands, standing adrift in the middle of his room. He released one to scratch fitfully at the back of his neck.

“I started doing it once I got my memories back.”

“That long?” Dorian asked, taking a few meandering strides closer. Lavellan gave a stiff nod, gaze still cast towards the ground. The metallic tips of Dorian’s boots were barely within his line of sight. He itched to move closer but didn’t act upon it.

“As soon as I got them, my first instinct was to run. To… give up.” He shrugged loosely, letting out a quiet, forced chuckle, “but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was so _afraid,_ but I pushed it down and pretended nothing had changed.” Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around himself in a loose hug. “I had to pretend to be the Lavellan I’d made up. Both to make things easy and… and because I _wished_ I could be him.” He forced another weak laugh that only made his chest ache.

"You know I thought, all those months ago, that once I had my memories I'd somehow be _free?"_ He scoffed, "that I could stop lying to get by. Out of the pan and into the fire, like they say, but I'm the one stoking the flames."

He dropped his arms in a huff, then brought one up to press the palm to his forehead. His eyes wandered the room, moving anywhere except for where Dorian still stood. He’d given the general explanation, now. A vague figure of his tortured psyche from the past months. But he’d started, and now, he wasn’t sure if he could stop. Dorian’s silence--awaiting, open; asking him to continue without _asking--_ it made his lips keep moving on their own accord. He wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to stop. It felt so natural and comforting to lie, but now that he’d spilled a scant few secrets, he wanted to keep going. He needed to.

“My memories frightened me, I suppose. What could I do? Up until last week, we were in the midst of two separate wars. All of a sudden, I was just one _single_ man standing in the way of the end of the fucking _world.”_ He gestured with his free hand, feeling more and more frantic as he spoke. “But that’s not what people want to see. It’s certainly not what they _need._ I have to smile and play the happy, carefree hero they got used to seeing because knowing that _this?”_ He gestured around, finally able to look at Dorian proper. “Is taking a toll on me? Then what’s to stop everyone else from breaking down?”

“Is that what it is?” Dorian asked, keeping his voice low, in stark contrast to Lavellan’s rising tone. Another step closer. “Lavellan, if you’re struggling, you can talk.”

“To _who?”_ He demanded harshly in reply, anger fizzling out as quick as it came and turning instead to desperation. Dorian didn’t flinch but the honest concern in his eyes did just as well. Lavellan let out a frantic laugh. “It’s all unfair-- _all_ of it. I've been dealt a shit hand, so what's a bit of bluffing? What’s a few lies to keep things going? Who I am--who I _really_ am--Syrillon, not Lavellan? He’s a _liar,_ Dorian. A coward. I can’t _stand_ him.” His lip threatened to tremble so he pursed them tightly closed for a moment, taking a few breaths to reel himself in. “And _he_ isn't the Inquisitor. If I can’t _be_ the hero people deserve, I can at least put my talents to good use. It’s easier this way.”

“Easier?” Dorian demanded, his own voice raising an inch as Lavellan's grew weak. Upset, contention-ridden and at the same time melancholy. _“Easier_ to live a lie? To be someone you’re not?”

 _“Yes,”_ Lavellan replied, partway to a sob. His fingers itched to move so he wound them in the material of his tunic over where his heart lay, “do you have any _idea_ what it’s like to wake up every day and _hate_ the person you see in the mirror? To feel like it would just be so much easier to be someone you aren’t?”

“As a matter of fact,” Dorian shot back, face falling to something more cross, “I _do.”_ Lavellan’s face warped with swift realization, eyes widening.

“Dorian, that’s not what I--”

“I _know.”_ Dorian crossed the last few strides between them, Lavellan already seizing up in shameful regret. “I may not have your experience, but trust me when I say that I know this _very_ well.” His voice had lowered near a harsh whisper, though it was less upset and more imploring.

“Living a lie festers inside you like a poison,” Dorian said, matter-of-fact. One hand came to rest at the crook of Lavellan’s jaw. His bright eyes searched the other man’s, trying to unwind that hurt from where he kept it tangled up in an angry mess within. “It would be easier, perhaps. But nothing truly _excellent_ has come from doing what was easy.”

“Right.” Lavellan whispered, lips pulling into a wince of a smile. Despite Dorian’s attempts to gaze beseechingly into his eyes, he looked down to where their feet were inches apart and pursed together his lips once more. _But what of the alternative?_ Lavellan thought, _what if living in truth only puts that poison in another’s hands?_

“Thank you,” he said, biting his tongue. “That’s very wise and inspiring.” He took in a weak gasp before continuing, pushing down the uncomfortable, awkward tears stinging at the back of his eyes and making his voice warp. “I don’t know if I can, but… if I have you to help me, I suppose I can try. To be better, I mean.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dorian replied, forcing some cheer, “I’ve grown terribly fond of that charming little smile you do. I’ve been desolate, you know, living without.”

“Have you, now?” Lavellan asked, letting out a weak laugh.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ve heard my wistful sighs from the library. I’m _so_ hard done by.” Lavellan, shaking his head, slowly wound his arms around Dorian’s midsection. He leaned his chin upon his embellished shoulder and stood in that embrace for a few peaceful moments. Lavellan realized, with some surprise, how much he wanted to stay that way. He could’ve died happy, so long as it was in Dorian’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut coming soon 😏


	34. Lavellan, Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the second section of the story.

It was on an exceptionally warm afternoon when Lavellan escaped his hermetic chambers where he’d been tucked the past three days, hair wet with morning bathwater and a gleaming, refreshed smile on his lips. He ambled, careless, towards the Herald’s Rest in search of entertainment. He had sped his way through every bit of paperwork he’d been handed and now all that was left of the excursion to the Arbor Wilds was to gather troops. Thus, Lavellan was left unoccupied but pleasantly drained of his want to work. There was little fidgeting to be done with his hands so he stuffed them into his trouser pockets as he strolled.

Casting his gaze towards the eastern ramparts, where the crest of their neighboring mountain barely raised high enough to be seen, he could spot a flock of songbirds. They fluttered, blackish-grey silhouettes in the sun, towards the parapet. They would toil behind the stone before taking off once more, clustering in the sky and tracing swirling shapes with their line of flight. They entangled in the air, tittering distantly, and then swooped low once more. A few of them came flapping towards him, a ways above his head. He watched as they flew; rotund, too-heavy bodies that gradually sank in the air before another hard flap of their wings corrected them. There was one, chirping overhead, who disappeared into a budding tree. Two more quickly followed.

Lavellan took leave of the birds and stepped inside the tavern. It was brighter and more empty than his usual visits. Maryden was nowhere to be seen but a few sparse customers occupied the tables, eating their way through their midday meal. Krem sat where he always did; tucked into one corner with a decent view of the lower level. Lavellan passed him with a _good afternoon_ and headed to where Iron Bull lounged in his usual spot.

“Haven’t you got a bedroom to sit quietly in?” He greeted.

“Yeah.” Bull replied, “but if I sit around in there, you won’t visit.” Lavellan sank into the seat beside him, a small table between them both. He crossed one knee over the other and looked out at the tavern from the back end.

“A valid point.” Lavellan hummed, letting his head loll back so he could study the worn wood above them. “Anything from the Ben-Hassrath? More assassination attempts, animal carcasses in your bed, all that rot?”

“Nah.” Bull said, offhand, “nothing.”

“Maybe they forgot about you.” Lavellan said, “or maybe they know that I would play dirty on your behalf.” Bull gave a grunt.

“Nice thought, but they don’t usually leave a return address.”

“I’m not above tossing everything at a problem to see what sticks.”

“I know.” Bull rumbled, bringing up one hand to scratch at his chin, “speaking of, how are things going? You and that Vint still together?” Lavellan narrowed his eyes at the implication of his segue.

“As if you don’t know.” He tittered, “playing the fool. That’s rich.”

“I’m a spy, not an eavesdropper.”

“Yes, semantics,” Lavellan waved a dismissive hand. He adjusted his position. Then, with an easy sigh, “things are fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just fine.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It’s a good thing that’s not your business, then, hmm?” Lavellan replied, mostly teasing. Bull put up his hands in lukewarm defense.

“It’s a great thing,” he dropped his hands, “I’m happy for you, Boss.”

“Even if it’s _boring?_ _”_ Lavellan asked in a laugh. “No… fucking in stairwells, or whatever it is you do around here. I’ve heard all sorts.” Bull let out a chuckle.

“Hey, if you guys don’t wanna spice things up, that’s on you. I’m keeping morale high.” Iron Bull waggled an accusatory finger in his direction.

 _“That’s_ what you’re doing? How thoughtful.”

“Yes, well, it keeps your scullery maids happy.”

“I’m sure it does. It also keeps a third of Skyhold walking funny on a day-to-day basis.” Lavellan said, almost scolding. _Stop fucking your way through the stronghold, Bull._

“Haven’t noticed.” Bull grunted. Then, “if you want a few tips?”

“I’m a little afraid of what that’d entail.” Bull waved a dismissive hand.

“He makes you happy, right?” Lavellan made a tentative gesture of _well, yeah,_ “there you go. Show him; that’s all you need.” Lavellan tilted his head in pleasant surprise.

“I was expecting something a bit more…” He gestured vaguely, searching for the words. “...Fuck-his-brains-out, explicit advice.” Bull’s lips parted, as if to provide, but Lavellan cut him off with one hand. “But this is _fine._ Thank you.”

“Anytime, Boss. You gonna do something special for him?” Lavellan let out a boyish laugh, partly at his expense.

“I hope _romantic evening planning_ was another thing included in your years of Ben-Hassrath training.” He ribbed.

“Yeah,” Bull grunted, “and tactical needlework. You could give him something; like a… trophy. I don’t know.”

“A trophy? Like the head of a bear?” Lavellan asked. It begat a shrug. “Call me plain, but I don’t think that’s the sort of thing he’d be interested in.”

“You never know until you try.” Bull replied, impassive.

“True enough. I’ll give it a go, then.” Lavellan rose from his seat, “I’ll let you know what happens. Save you the trouble of _spying.”_

 _“Alright,”_ Iron Bull grunted, “go get ‘em, Boss.”

-

Tara’s tugging on her leash had been the only thing keeping Lavellan from being completely lost to his abstraction. He walked the battlements with brows knit in frustration, thinking himself in circles as he walked the perimeter clockwise. Now, the mutt was in Cullen's hands--Lavellan had stopped by and ordered him away from his paperwork for a short break; Tara was good as a bribe--and he could be afforded some time to think alone.

His quarters felt much more still when Tara wasn’t coming to lay her head on his lap. He adored her company, but taking baths tended to be far more difficult when she was in a needy mood. He'd barely managed one that morning without her hopping into the water with him. So, he’d be taking full advantage. Perhaps he could even wash his _hair._ Oh, what a treat!

He’d started stripping as soon as he scaled his stairs; tossing away articles wherever it suited him. His tub was still full from the morning, but his toil with paperwork and his stroll around Skyhold in the heat had him working up a sweat. It laid lukewarm in wait as he plotted; remembering, with some surprise, he’d been gifted a set of bath products by someone-or-other from Orlais and he’d never had the opportunity to use them.

He rifled through his bureau to find them, plucking the ornate basket from the far reaches of his shelf so that he might lay its contents atop his bathside table. He surveyed his little treasures, picking out a brick of hard, fragrant soap to be set aside. His fingers then found and uncorked a reddish, flowery bottle of carved glass. He took barely a whiff of it but the smell of prophet’s laurel and apple blossom was so strong that, for a moment, he thought he’d gone blind. A moment passed where he thanked his lucky stars that wasn’t the case. He then poured a generous amount of the oil into the bath and set the little bottle back into the basket.

Once the warm water was suitably loaded with scents and textures of all sorts, he slipped into its grasp. He did a lazy job of actually _cleaning--_ mostly, it was his hair and the day's heat he was scrubbing at--before he was just soaking in the murky water, staring blankly at where the opposite wall met the ceiling. He hadn’t the foggiest idea what he should do to _show Dorian he cared,_ so to speak, but he could think of something. He was a romantic! He could do… books. Or a fun scarf. Or more plums.

Lavellan pressed his hands over his eyes and sunk down in the water another inch. _Maker,_ what a struggle. He could make an entire list of gift ideas but he’d never get over the jarring worry of his _not being good enough._ That was it, wasn’t it? He was an insufferable _pleaser._ He could just find something pleasantly nondescript and stop fretting so much! He took his hands from his face, one of them smoothing over his damp fringe. The other dangled over the water from where his arm was braced along the rim of the bath. He rubbed fitfully at his scalp, willing good ideas to come wafting his way.

The tiny ghost of a voice piped up at the back of his mind: _perhaps these struggles are more than inexperience._ A hollow ache started in his chest and it reverberated into the tips of his fingers. Like a shockwave, he felt himself sink into that too-familiar train of thought. The one which would cross his mind when he lay in a cold bed, staring up into the darkness. Dorian would reassure him; soothe his mind and tell him sweet, meaningless excuses. But with every lingering kiss and touch, there would always be doubt. It was a bitter taste he'd catch on the other man's lips when he pulled away--a reminder.

Their... relationship--whatever it was--was one-sided. It seemed that way, anyway; like only one of them had his full heart bared. Lavellan cared wholeheartedly for him, only wanting to know, truly, that he felt happy... despite all Dorian's teasing and bluster, he was soft behind those walls. Lavellan could see that same tenderness--and insecurity--in him, too, and he wondered if Dorian would do the same: look up at the ceiling when sleep wouldn't come, hope in silence that Lavellan wasn't some mirage. That he hadn't grown to care for someone he wasn't. Or perhaps he never doubted him; he believed that Lavellan was a pure-hearted, heroic man through and through (despite all his personal flaws) and there truly was _something_ to this newer reincarnation. A shred of the man he grew so close to. Lavellan could do the same as him--he could reassure, and put all those thoughts and fears to rest with every breath until his very last--

But how could he convince Dorian of something he himself hadn't any answer for?

 _Was_ he a man worthy of that care? That affection? Was anything Dorian knew about him; their connection--was any of it real?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to cut off that train of thought where it stood. His hand drifted down and he ran the wet pads of his fingers along the raised flesh to one side of his chest, rubbing into the once sore skin as he'd grown to do. The wound had healed well, but he could still remember it with shocking clarity. It was the Warden’s eyes, more than his knife, that came back in the dreamscape recreations. They’d already been glassy--like someone long-dead--when he’d run them through with his sword. They had still been alive, clinically speaking, but he wasn’t sure just how _aware_ they’d been; whether there was anything left to the person inside that shambling body. More than the many interesting deaths or injuries Lavellan faced, it was a fate like _that_ which raised the hairs on the back of his neck. One where he was taken over; unaware--or perhaps uncaring--of the pain he caused.

He then traced the strange scar along his marked palm. It was a slit, at the epicentre, and he could recall the heat of the anchor with little effort. It burned like a fever beneath his skin and that heat spread into the tips of his fingers. What followed was a pins-and-needles numbness that would steadily fade given the time. He traced the broadening spirals of slightly-raised flesh, where the anchor branded a pattern into his skin. It was like… fingerprints. Not his own; indeed, for he could still make out the whorls clashing with the alien design. They converged and flowed like angry waves against the surface of his skin, and for a moment, he thought he saw that familiar greenish glow beneath his flesh.

It was a knock at the door downstairs that startled him from his pondering. All was silent for a moment, and Lavellan wondered if he had simply imagined it. He heard the door open, then close. Footsteps creaked across the constructed platform to his stairs. Lavellan laid in wait, sinking low in the water. As low as he could get without submerging his eyes in the fragrant, murky bathwater. He was glad to have used plenty of soap; the tiny, clustered bubbles gathered on the surface and gave him a bit of decency, should this be a business call.

It was Dorian who scaled the stairs and Lavellan, pleased to not be dragged back into work, sat up with a sloshing sound. He wiped a line of soap from his face, taking special care to rub the oily water from his lips before he could taste it by accident.

“I was just thinking about you,” he greeted, matter-of-fact, as he flicked the excess water from his hand. “What’dya need?”

“What a pleasant surprise.” Dorian held up a small bundle. It looked like silk, with a strip along it in a mismatched colour; a design of some sort. “I’ve a gift.”

“A _gift?”_ Lavellan drawled, waving him closer. He leaned both arms along the side of the tub, “I like gifts. Go on, show it off.” Dorian unfurled the fabric, unveiling a long blue wrap. There was a silver snake embroidered along its length in the same style as his usual robes. Lavellan leaned out of the water enough to catch the end of it, pinching it between his fingers. He ran his thumb along the smooth fabric, peering into the thin, soft threads of silk.

“For me?” He asked, smiling up towards him.

“That’s the idea of a gift, yes.” Dorian replied, looking quite pleased with himself.

“We’ll match.”

“Practically twins.” 

“Maker forbid someone mistakes me for you,” Lavellan chortled, releasing the fabric to lean over the other side of his bath and snatch up a discarded robe. “I’d take full advantage.”

“I can only imagine; my reputation would be ruined.” Dorian stepped away, laying his gift over the armrest of Lavellan’s sofa. When he turned back, Lavellan was stepping onto the rug, making a knot with the small ties of the robe. One or the other of them--or perhaps both--shrank the space between them. Either way, Dorian was close enough to run the hem of Lavellan’s neckline between his thumb and forefinger. His hand paused a few inches above where Lavellan’s rested. He tugged him closer with the pinched fabric, though it was barely noticeable.

“I did come here with innocent intentions, I assure you.” Dorian said, matter-of-fact. His hand moved off-course to instead splay across Lavellan’s chest, his palm laid flat atop his heart.

“What a laugh.” Lavellan scoffed, speaking softly. With his ribbing came a small, easy smile. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

“Not really, but it was worth a try.” Following Dorian’s long-suffering sigh was a chaste peck on the lips. Lavellan’s hands laid upon his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the leather straps on either side.

“Well, for the record,” Lavellan replied, allowing the other man to pull him closer, “I like the gift. It’s a lovely colour.” Dorian’s tugging had their hips pressing and Lavellan swallowed dryly. Suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, he shrunk back, though only minutely. They met in another, slightly longer kiss that put him somewhat more at ease.

“If you’ll recall, I _did_ say I’d give you a courting gift. Though that was sometime ago, now.” Dorian tucked his face into his neck and, in turn, Lavellan was grateful for that small privacy. Hands were wandering and he couldn’t keep an ounce of uncomfortable worry from overpowering any enjoyment he might’ve gotten from it. The hands grew a bit more _suggestive_ and he pushed back gently at Dorian’s shoulders. At once, they were separated, Dorian with his hands drawn back.

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan said quickly, wide-eyed, taking a half-step back. Dorian gave him a cautious look and kept the meager distance.

“Are you alright?” He asked, more firm in comparison.

“Yes, It’s just--” Lavellan’s mind raced, looking for an explanation. Just what _was_ wrong? This wasn’t the first time they’d been intimate, so what had changed? He needed to think. He needed to be alone.

“--I need to get my dog.” He spluttered, already marveling at the poor excuse. He’d done it now, hadn’t he? He turned on his heel and headed swiftly for the door, plucking up his overcoat from the floor as he passed. Dorian called after him in question but his footsteps didn’t follow. Lavellan pulled on his coat, cheeks flushed with embarrassed shame, and moved quickly down the stairs.


	35. SMUT: Hearts Bare, Bared; Gripped in Shaking Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We made it, folks. It's time to do the dirty. There'll be another smut coming some day in the future that'll be a bit different, yippee
> 
> Edit 8/14/2020: added a scene at the start for Dorian. Just for clarification and adding The Feelings. I would tell you to enjoy but it's kinda too :/ for that

He'd done it now.

He wasn't even sure _what_ he'd done, but there was little doubt in Dorian's mind that he'd somehow ruined things. 

This was it, wasn't it? What he had been afraid of? Having something so pleasant and comfortable--somehow natural to him despite how foreign it all was; to be cared for and to trust--only to blunder it by his own innate... whatever that was. It was like cruel fate; to, seemingly, have had his worst fears affirmed. Rationally, he was certain there was a chance at talking things through. Perhaps... it was poor timing. Or the wrong move. Or... 

Dorian slipped out of Lavellan's chamber door, keeping his eyes on his feet as he crossed through the main hall. If there were eyes on him after the Inquisitor's hasty retreat, he wasn't paying them any heed, for his own pride's sake. It was with some wry, desperate amusement that he realized Mother Giselle would be praising the _bloody_ Maker if she'd seen it.

There was a judgmental little voice come to dog him as he scaled to stairs to the library. It was his fault that it'd happened, wasn't it? Something he'd done or said along the line had put Lavellan off.

He'd pass through the library to get to his room and then he was home free. No more eyes on him, no more cool pretense, just... quiet. The prospect was alarming, almost, with how that ugly little voice warred in his mind. It assured him that it was what he deserved, to have been left marooned. To be left behind. But it would be inevitable whether he deserved it or not, no?

He shook his head, brushing off that conspiratory voice. No, he deserved better. He deserved more. _Lavellan would want me to be happy,_ he thought with some desperation. What good would that assurance be when Lavellan was the source of his upset? _Kaffas,_ curse this fool heart! Why did he have to be so maudlin?

His door closed at his back and he leaned against it, trying reel in his thoughts. He'd been wrong before. After Adamant, Lavellan had been so out of sorts he'd been ignored, partly by accident, for days. Perhaps this was similar? Perhaps something was wrong? Stubborn tears stung his eyes, regardless. He felt so foolishly like a schoolboy, upset over the slightest thing.

But it wasn't a slight thing, was it? It was his eyes. Maker--something in his _eyes_ was so confused and so... afraid. Worry crept up his spine just as dread formed a pit in his gut. Had he hurt him somehow? Lavellan wasn't exactly _fragile,_ as far as elves went, but something might've made him a bit panicked. But _what?_ It was the wondering, more than anything else, that upset him. 

An uneasy ache pressed against his chest. _It wasn't my fault,_ he repeated to himself, as if it were a mantra, even if it remained to be seen. It soothed those hateful little thoughts into the back of his mind. He rubbed fitfully at his eyes one by one and sought out whatever spirits he had tucked away. Lavellan, if he was there, would frown in that way he always did when he found Dorian drinking more than he should be. The thought of it only made him hurt more.

If this was the portent for the end, truly? What would he do then?

What he always did, he supposed, when it came to the things that were difficult. He rifled through his stacks of books and found one that would be suitably distracting. He uncorked himself a bottle of Orlesian brandy and settled into his bed, waiting to pass out or to stop hurting; whichever came first.

-

Lavellan’s fist halted just before knocking and he slunk back. Woeful in movement, he leaned over the banister across from the door instead, hanging his head weakly. He was growing tired of making mistakes on repeat. He’d hardly ever had someone to confide in so easily, and though it was new, he couldn’t help feeling ashamed that he wasn’t somehow more good at it. He’d taken some time to himself, as he was accustomed, to sort out his thoughts. To face that feeling of excitement-turned-dread. He was embarrassed to explain himself--to face it--but what else could he do? Pretend it hadn’t happened? His excuse wasn’t even _good._

He was left standing outside of Dorian’s quarters, floundering, draped in his silken favour. He turned, leaning back against the balustrade and staring mournfully at the oaken door. If he thought too hard, he could still feel the hands on him. With some time to distance himself from it, that awkward shame--wherever it came from--was now gone. He wanted it. Wanted _him._ He only hoped he could get past this anxious dread and apologize for running away.

But what did he want, truly? Comfort, perhaps. Warm arms to hold him, or a body to sleep next to. A voice in the back of his mind--familiar, but not fully recognized--told him he was being hopeful. He managed a bittersweet smile. He’d been only a tool for dalliance; that was the basis of his every experience. It had been so _easy,_ living without his memories. He had no reservations nor worries to keep him at bay. Now, not only was anything more tender or careful seemingly outside his grasp, he wasn’t even sure how to get nearer to it in the first place. But, he supposed, he could start small. He could _start._

He pushed off the railing and took a few confident steps towards the door. That confidence leaked out through his soles as soon as he raised his fist to knock again, but he fought through. He managed a weak rapping to the wood and flinched back even before there was any sign of life on the other side. Still, it was done. Now he could only wait. _You don’t have any proof that he’ll be disappointed,_ he reassured himself. It felt hollow. His doubts raced forth to match it: _you also don’t have any proof he’ll want to see you at all._

The door opened a crack quite abruptly and Lavellan steeled himself. At first, only one eye was visible. It peered into the dark, where Lavellan was illuminated by the thin strip of candlelight set upon him. Then, it cracked another inch, and more was visible. Dorian, hair messier than previous, focused on the soft blue fabric wrapped around Lavellan’s shoulders. Then, he looked towards his face.

“Yes?” He asked evenly. He didn’t budge from where he stood; a bulwark between Lavellan and his quarters.

“I’m sorry,” the elf said, “can we chat?”

“We’re chatting now.” Dorian replied, terse. He still didn’t move. Lavellan gave a tentative nod, fingers winding in the silk around his shoulders. He could only imagine what Dorian thought of him. What he thought was _wrong_ with him.

“Right.” Lavellan breathed, “if you took my… _escape_ personally, I came to tell you not to… and to apologize. It wasn’t your fault in the slightest.” He watched Dorian’s cheeks more than his eyes. He could tell they were reddened and staring hard, and he hadn’t quite garnered the strength to face it yet.

“Lavellan,” he sighed, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “you could’ve _stayed_ and told me.” _You’re too late to save me the trouble of hurting._ The hard edge that had previously been in his tone was now gone and replaced with quiet disappointment. It hurt more that way, without a doubt.

“You’re right.” Lavellan replied, “I wasn’t thinking. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I still am, but I’m determined to not make such a mess of things this time round.” He watched Dorian’s lips quirk into a frown and then he was stepping aside.

“It’ll take more than that to stop you, I’m sure.” Dorian murmured, turning his back to stride towards his bed. He pulled together the many books scattered atop it, collecting them in a neat pile to place onto his tiny desk. Lavellan shuffled inside behind him, taking the lukewarm ridicule as penance. The door soothed shut with scarcely a push and he fought to not lean back against it for some sort of comfort; something to make him feel less marooned. Dorian looked back at him and Lavellan caught his gaze. Not even the solace of the door at his back could’ve helped him, then.

“So? You were going to apologize, weren’t you?” Dorian asked, gesturing in his direction. He was put-together, on all accounts, but there were little things. His face had been scrubbed clean and his eyes seemed glassy.

“Right.” Lavellan muttered, taking a half-step forward. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. It…” He trailed off, brows knitting together. “... I don’t know. I don’t have an excuse.” One hand clung to the fabric around his shoulders, keeping it in place as his other scrubbed through his hair. A shaky wave of courage hit him and he looked up more fully.

“I care very much for you, Dorian, and you make me act a fool without trying. So please excuse me for being so clumsy.” He managed a tight smile, “I want you to be happy, truly. I've never needed to put much thought into... this. Sex, that is. The thought of _me_ not being satisfactory, for who I am or where I've been, now that I know about it… it frightened me.” He shuffled a few steps closer. “That’s why I panicked. Why I ran.”

“Fine.” Dorian sighed. Lavellan’s brows raised an inch.

“Fine?” Dorian came to lean against the foot board, arms crossed.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Lavellan smiled a little more genuine, though still shaky, but Dorian’s face had barely lost its frown. He jabbed an accusatory finger, waggling it for emphasis every few words. “You’re not off the hook for this, amatus. This is the second time you’ve run off, albeit for less than a day this time round. Do you have _any_ idea how worried you make me?” Lavellan dropped his head. "I wish you could trust me." It was barely a whisper.

"I _do_ trust you," Lavellan replied, lips pulling into a frown, "I'm just out of practice." Dorian sank with a sigh and traversed the few steps between them. He wound his hands loosely in the silk wrapped around Lavellan's shoulders and tugged him in to press a relieved-seeming kiss against his temple. Lavellan surrendered to the embrace that followed, dying shame and warmth mixing in his chest.

"You look fetching in this colour," Dorian murmured, cheek pressed against Lavellan's head, "I knew you would. It's a wonder how I'm so good at this."

"Seems obvious to me." They parted, allowing Lavellan to look up at him more fully. When Lavellan caught his eye again, there was something more vulnerable to him; somewhere past the walls of bluster and flippant jokes, something needy and wanting reached out. Careful, as if to prevent him from startling, Lavellan pressed another soft kiss to his lips. One of his hands came to lay flat against Dorian's chest and, tilting his head, “I suppose I could let you flog me. So long as it makes you forgive me faster.” He said in a sigh. Dorian slipped the silk off his shoulders and folded it carefully in his grip. He laid it against Lavellan's chest for him to take.

“Playful banter is good fun,” he replied, edging on stern, an echo of wounded precaution, “but if you’re not comfortable, I would very much appreciate a verbal warning.” _Rather than making a fool of yourself all over again._ “I need to know that you’re alright. Saves us both trouble.”

“Right. Will do.” Lavellan could manage a smile, now, and he brushed close, dropping folded silk on the edge of the bed. They were chest-to-chest and the challenge, though weak, was back in Lavellan’s expression. “I could give you a safeword. I’m thinking…” he gestured vaguely, as if wafting the word to him from the air. _“...Prestidigitation.”_

“What?” Dorian squawked, expertly covering his earlier vulnerability, “you don't call that out in the throes of passion?”

“I know, I know,” Lavellan sighed, hand coming to rest gently upon Dorian’s upper arm, “I’m sure that’s _the thing to do_ in the Imperium. I’m so uncouth.” A wider, more boyish smile crossed his lips and he threw up his hands theatrically, “ _oh,_ Dorian, _oh,_ yes, thaumaturgy, augury, sortilege!”

“I hadn’t realized you knew so many synonyms.” Dorian teased, pulling away to sit on the edge of the bed. Past the lighthearted banter was a silent conversation: between careful touches and shared glances. Something like worry and fear--a tentativeness for what was to come--and, to match it, something to soothe. To make him trust, if only for the night.

“Just because I got too close to your college experience doesn’t mean you need to go for my vocabulary.” Lavellan ribbed back, sitting parallel to him on the closer side of the bed. He laid back, just left enough of the other man for his head to fall beside his thigh. He earned a light chuckle that made him grin to himself.

“That’s not quite it,” Dorian sighed, “though I suppose not _every_ affair was good enough to make me rattle off words of less than three syllables.”

“Did you stare up at the ceiling and list things off during the boring ones?” Lavellan asked, lips drawn to the side in a look of empathetic pity, “I usually do city names. Long as I’m on my back, anyway.” A louder laugh.

“I’ll be keeping you off your back, then.”

“You’re off to a bad start.” Lavellan squirmed to sit up, pulling off his boots to toss them in a heap by the door. He paused before taking off anything else. Perhaps it was silly to ask, but he needed to know. For his heart’s sake, as well as his mind.

“Dorian?” A hum. “What do you… want? From me?” Lavellan shuffled back to sit on his knees.

“In general, or right now?”

“Both.”

“Depends on what you’re willing to give, I suppose.” Lavellan laughed despite himself. It was embarrassed and short but he couldn’t help it. How foolish they both were! Playing coy back and forth to stop their feelings from getting hurt; getting nowhere in the process. Taking the initiative, Lavellan shuffled over to his side.

“I would gladly walk through hell at your side. _What I would give_ isn’t exactly a restraint.” He braced one hand at the back of Dorian’s neck and leaned in to press a kiss to his temple. “It’s your intent I want to know. Just to work out how to approach… this. If you want to continue like this--friends, but… not--then I’m fine with that. Casual sex isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“And if that isn’t what I want?” Lavellan allowed a small spark of breathless, excited hope.

“Well,” he cleared his throat to push down the nerves, “I’d like that. Though you _should_ know what you’re getting into.”

“Right, go on. Best get these terms and conditions out of the way.” Dorian glanced his way to flash a smile. Lavellan shed his overcoat and tossed it away, movements possessed of a bit more giddy excitement.

“It’s not much; I just have no idea what I’m doing most of the time.”

 _“Well,_ that’s a relief.” Following a snicker, Lavellan pressed a few kisses high on his cheek, possessed of enough sudden affection to give a try at snuffing out all their shared worries. “So we’ll be trudging through this uncharted territory in your usual Inquisition fashion?” Lavellan gave him a cheeky shrug.

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“Clearly!” Dorian guffawed.

“I can’t promise that everything will be easy. I’ve some habits that I’m working past, as you well know. So long as we go slow, I’ll stay right where I am.” Lavellan’s fingers trailed after Dorian’s, undoing a clasp here or a knot there.

“Oh, but surely not _everything_ has to be slow?” Dorian asked, lolling his head to face him with a boyish smile. Lavellan smothered his laugh on the other man’s lips before drawing back to sit up on his haunches.

“Face me. Come on,” Lavellan instructed, gesturing with one hand. Huffily, Dorian complied, allowing Lavellan to crawl into his lap. One thin hand splayed across his chest and Dorian was being pushed back against the bedspread.

“Are you sure you can get this off me?” Dorian ribbed, canting his head to one side as Lavellan peppered kisses along his neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lavellan drawled, voice pitched higher with incredulity. His fingers dug into the leather, soothing it off in pieces. At least Dorian wasn’t wearing his funny little belt with the pouches; it would’ve been a bit more precarious straddling him if that were the case.

“Nothing at all, my dear.” Dorian replied, pointedly impartial. Lavellan moved lower, shuffling to sit atop his thighs. He tugged one of his belts undone, now a bit rougher that he knew _what_ he was taking off. Dorian sat up on his elbows and watched, looking perfectly pleased with the harsher treatment.

“Buckle makers,” Lavellan murmured, “the unseen upper crust of Thedas.” He yanked the belt undone and slipped it out from under him to toss over his shoulder, along with everything else he’d wrenched free. “I’d like a look at your finances. Your budget for buttons--” Lavellan looked up, finding Dorian looking a bit too smug.

“--You know what would be _incredibly_ sexy?” A hum. “If you helped.”

“No thank you.” Dorian replied, flippant. “The time’s passed for that.” A heavy, long-suffering sigh was wrenched from Lavellan’s chest and he shuffled back just an inch more. His hands ran over the leather at Dorian’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the grooves. He followed it up to his hips, plotting to himself with as impartial a look as he could manage.

“I don’t think this is the time to be snide.” Lavellan said, thumbs skirting the hem of the leather.

“I disagree. I think--” Lavellan’s hand slid carefully over the greenish fustian velvet, the heel of his palm pressing into the other man’s groin. It begat a sharp hiss and Dorian stuttered in his speech for a moment. _“--Maker!”_

Lavellan took his hand away once more and went back to his work, stealing Dorian’s smug look for his own use. He wasn’t especially careful, following his tease, in avoiding moving too far. His fingers wandered and his thumbs would press into the trouser-clad skin he discovered. The hums and stuttered gasps egged him on, distracting him from just how _ridiculous_ this was as foreplay.

When he finally got a leather shin guard undone, he tossed it over his shoulder with a victorious sound. Glancing up, he found Dorian with arms splayed out over the bedspread, fingers grappling for a hold in the bedsheets, his cheeky smile wiped off.

“You’re a horrible tease.” He accused.

“You’re one to talk.” Lavellan laughed, “take your shirt off.” Lavellan pushed down a smile at his expense and went back to working off what remained of Dorian’s over-layers. A buckle here, a leather guard there, and then he was left in his thin pair of trousers and whatever lay beneath. Once he looked back up, he found Dorian’s hair an unruly mess from the way he’d shrugged off his tunic. One hand was working to haphazardly soothe it back into place.

“Don’t worry,” Lavellan teased, crawling back up to sit at his hips, “I’m sure my hair will look worse than yours no matter what you do.” He caught him in another soft kiss. He’d mostly gotten used to the feeling of the mustache, now, as well as the strange smell of the wax that came with it.

“Truly, you’re a master of pillow talk.”

“Alright, alright, no need to heckle me.” Lavellan scoffed, a loose smile crossing his lips. Dorian’s hands moved up along his thighs and then to the hem of his robe, pushing the material off his shoulders. “The chat usually costs extra.”

“Isn’t this from your bath?” Dorian asked, tugging at the fabric, “are you even wearing anything under this?” Lavellan shook his head. The rough pad of a finger swiped along his lower lip and Dorian rumbled a derisive, _“naughty.”_

“Let a man live,” Lavellan complained, slipping his arms out of the sleeves. “Easier to hide a knife like this.” The article fell, joined only at the fastening tie above his hips.

“And are you?”

“Why would I wear a knife in the bath?” Lavellan ribbed. He pressed down his hips and whatever reply Dorian was working up to was swallowed up in a groan.

Lavellan leaned down, peppering little red marks along the skin laid out beneath him. He nipped and sucked wherever he pleased, savouring the chance to leave some sort of mark on a partner; _especially_ in any place it could be visible. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he could express through the skin just how much care he felt. He could slide his hands over the expanse and Dorian would hear _I adore you,_ as intended, and it would save him the trouble of saying it aloud. He was filled to the brim with this awful tenderness, but still he craved it, so he treasured every kiss; determined to sate this thirst.

He stopped using teeth the lower he wandered. One hand trailed in his wake, smoothing down Dorian’s sternum and then to his stomach. There was a barely-there trail of dark hair where he moved and it grew coarser with his descent. The skin beneath his lips was burning hot and each kiss smothered him in it. His hands, grasping Dorian’s hips, reminded him to keep still. He spared a hand to tug the hem of his trousers lower, unveiling more skin by the inch. Black curls of hair, trimmed short, started to smatter the skin where he moved. Sitting at Dorian’s thighs, he trailed one hand from his abdomen to his groin, reveling in the impatient wriggle it earned him. Now, his fingers moved back to the hem, where he pushed it to his thighs with both hands.

He paused, moving back up to catch his lips. Dorian’s needy hands slid over his chest, one of them following the flow of his tattoos. His fingers dug in wherever they settled; first, upon his shoulders, then up his neck to the back of his head, where they wound into his hair. One of Lavellan’s hands was busy holding himself up, but the other was free to drift down between them and run the length of the erection he’d unveiled. He ate up every sound he earned as it passed between their teeth. Every hitched gasp or quiet keen, aware enough about the time of evening and just how many people were liable to hear any especially loud sounds.

“Stop a moment." Dorian breathed, pecking his lips one more time. Lavellan sat back on his haunches, allowing the mage to wriggle for his bedside table and rifle through the top drawer. In the interim, Lavellan tugged his trousers the rest of the way down his legs, discarding them somewhere unseen. They'd find them in the morning. His hands trailed up along the mage's legs and towards the curve of his backside, marveling at the smooth skin with nothing less than awe.

Dorian let out a victorious sound and turned to sit on his backside once again. Waving a bottle in one hand, he let out an involuntary gasp as he was yanked back in with little effort.

“Back to it?” Lavellan verified, peppering kisses along his jaw, as if he'd already begun missing him. The mage popped the bottle open and smoothed some of its contents between his hands, a breathless smile crossing his lips.

“Back to it.” Dorian agreed. He fell back against his pillows once more and Lavellan undid the closure on his robe to get it out of the way. He returned to his place atop him, putting his lips to good use at the column of Dorian's throat. Hands trailed down over his revealed flesh, smearing slick over his cock in a long, teasing movement before disappearing altogether. Dorian’s legs wound around him, herding him in closer, and they met in another languid kiss. Lavellan greedily swallowed each short, keening sound and the breathy curses following in their wake as Dorian used what slick remained on his hands to prepare himself.

Dorian’s hands slid up, slippery fingers digging into Lavellan’s shoulders. The latter used one hand as a guide and then, easing inside, the both of them released similarly breathless sounds. He brought his hand back up to brace the weight of his upper body, his other winding around the other man, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Hand pinned between his skull and the pillow beneath, he cradled his head like an embrace and he might’ve felt a bit less secure in such a tender position if Dorian didn’t wrap his arms around him in return. Lavellan simply pushed down his boyish delight at being held so tightly and buried his face in Dorian’s neck as they moved together.

He felt out as he was accustomed, almost to the point of muscle memory. A gasp of _faster_ and he'd obey. _Please,_ and he'd work something out to appease. For a passing moment, he almost felt guilty. He was treating it like a job--like a _client--_ when it was meant to be so much more; so completely different. He let himself relax an inch and listen to the sounds reverberating through their sweat-slick chests. He focused on the arms tight around his midsection; the thumb trailing the end of one of the collection of scars along his back. He was thankful, the longer he rocked against him, that he wasn’t looking Dorian in the eye. That would make his job--his _role--_ far more difficult.

This wasn't the first time they'd done this, certainly, but it was the first time Lavellan had been with _anyone_ of note as far as he'd cared to remember. It provided stakes he hadn't known, before. It was at once exciting and _terrifying_ to be this eager to please. He hoped his experience was... beneficial, for all its trouble in how it made him think. It had given him plenty of insecurities, but being a horrible pleaser wasn't one of them. He'd learned to use _that_ to his advantage.

Dull teeth dug into his shoulder and he knew things were coming to a close. He was reminded, with some giddy excitement, that perhaps this would not be the last time. A soft, breathy curse fanned against his skin and he caught his lower lip in his teeth, fighting to push through his want. He released Dorian from his hold and shifted, switching arms to give his aching one a break. Now, with his free hand, he roamed the expanse of Dorian’s skin. He slipped down his heaving abdomen, to his stomach and then to his cock. He wrapped his fingers around him, giving one gentle, firm squeeze. _That_ elicited a louder curse; this time in something other than Common.

The battle-roughened pad of his thumb swiped over the head. When he gave attention to the slit he earned another keen and it was then Lavellan noticed, with some wicked delight, he wasn’t getting much back-talk. Dorian tensed with climax and he was squeezed tight inside him, his train of thought interrupted. Eyes pressed shut, he slipped out just quick enough to spill against the mage's stomach, muffling his groan with an open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. Hands came to cup his cheeks and he was pulled into a breathless kiss--filled with what was probably too much teeth--but Lavellan couldn’t manage anything less clumsy. His shoulder ached where a perfect bite mark imprinted into his skin.

“Well,” Lavellan breathed, breaking away to press a kiss to the mole high up on Dorian’s cheek, “shit.”

“Agreed. It's been a while.” He sighed, slumping back limply against his pillows. Lavellan endeavored to work past his growing exhaustion and slip out of the bed. He snatched up a rag from the rim of the tub tucked away in one corner. He stumbled back, suddenly clumsy under Dorian’s weary gaze. He cleaned himself off with the rag, then noticed the pearly white fluid still along his hand.

“You’re--” Dorian started. Lavellan licked his hand clean in one go and glanced up. Dorian cut himself off with a dry swallow before trying again. “--you’re desecrating my favourite rag. You’re a terrible guest.” Lavellan let out an unguarded, if tired, laugh and then wiped the rest of his skin clean. He lobbed the balled-up rag, hitting Dorian square in the chest.

“Yeah, well, it’s your mess.” He replied derisively, cutting himself off with a tired groan as he flopped back against the bed. The room was silent for a moment as Dorian attended to himself. Lavellan’s eyes started to flutter closed. Then, startling him from falling asleep where he lay, Dorian nudged his shoulder with one foot.

“Come on.” He demanded. Lavellan cracked an eye open to find Dorian patting the pillows beside him.

 _“Pushy.”_ Lavellan murmured, crawling to where Dorian instructed, regardless. He fell back into a sit, back up against the pillows, and tucked his legs under the messy, sweat-dampened covers. The room was cast in darkness as soon as the candles at the bedside were extinguished and Lavellan was left to get comfortable without seeing what exactly he was doing. He pulled the covers up under his arm and laid back, waiting to see what Dorian would do and whether he could get away with being especially needy.

He settled in beside him at a short distance; something respectable, given they’d just had sex not minutes earlier. Eyes already drooping closed, Lavellan shuffled over, worming one arm underneath the other man so he could wrap him up in a sleepy, awkward embrace. A kiss was pressed to his forehead in the dark. Gentle hands carded through his hair and he was soothed, quickly, to sleep.


	36. Glimpses Paint the Picture of What Might Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arbor Wilds coming soon. Hey also I still don't know why there aren't kids in Inquisition. Give me a kid who gets lost in a crowd and accidentally hold Iron Bull's hand bc they think its their dad and then they look up and SCREAM

Dorian had almost gotten used to the feeling of sleeping on the ground. Their bedrolls did something to block out the chill, certainly, but it was the ache he’d needed to grow accustomed to. It was innumerably more bearable with someone to sleep next to, that was a fact. He would appreciate a proper mattress so long as Lavellan was there, tucked in next to him, letting him steal all the blankets. Sleeping alone--though he wouldn't confess it aloud--was so much less satisfying in comparison.

Some days, when they both were still at Skyhold, he’d wake just before dawn. There would be barely any light to the room and Lavellan would be a pleasant warmth atop or beside him. He’d often be tangled up in between bedsheets and limbs and have to unwind himself from the messy knot just to go relieve himself. Still, he was happy to climb back into bed and let Lavellan wrap him up once more if only to make up for lost time.

Other days, he’d wake to a cool bed. Oftentimes, Lavellan had only stepped out--be it for a piss, or to shake off a dream; he’d never asked--and he would come right back. He’d see Dorian awake and give his usual _good morning_ and peck on the cheek and then he could doze back off again for another few hours. There was a scant few times where, often in Lavellan’s chambers, he’d be up working. Poring over parchment under the light of one lonely candle, weary eyes cast in shadow by its flickering. He’d call the elf back to bed, earning a small smile and a _yes, dear,_ and then things were right once more, even if they weren’t.

It was almost thrilling, the domesticity of it. It was all the easy comfort he’d ever wanted without the need to explain himself. To show himself and his intention. They would seek eachother out, for whatever the reason, and the other would be there. Without question or pause; he’d need only say _tonight?_ And the other would nod and smile and that was it. Dorian was hesitant to put a name to the… _whatever_ things were, but they worked for him. They were comfortably vague.

More often than not, he’d been chaste in being forthright; telling Lavellan he wanted to see him, if only so he could have the company. It was easier to say _come back tonight_ and get the same outcome under the guise of flirtation. That made it simpler to tell himself that things were uncomplicated; they were _together,_ that was all. It took away the higher stakes of something with a real name to it. Lavellan would court him; give gifts or pretend they’d done all the steps in order because _he_ didn’t fear the labels it brought. But poor, foolish, _uneasy_ Dorian would rather see them as an odd, mismatched pair and leave it at that.

Confidants, maybe. Friends with benefits; if the benefits were something like mutual comfort in addition to the not-very-friend-like sex. Marriage always had the possibility of divorce and it didn’t guarantee a happy ending, this he knew. Even courtship, no matter how earnest, had the possibility of being called off. But you couldn’t call off a relationship with no name.

So he’d soak up all the attention and care he could get, as if he was stocking up, or perhaps filling a hole. Lavellan provided it without so much as a question and sometimes he wondered whether he’d simply seen through his carefree guise all along. _How like him,_ he thought, _to humour me._ He’d not stopped doing it since they’d met, even in the rare times they’d butted heads.

Dorian looked up and to his right, where Lavellan sat cross-legged beside him. He could've stayed there forever, even despite the ache in his back from the hard ground. He wondered, for a moment, if Lavellan felt the same. He would, wouldn't he? For another moment, he imagined this same scene; five, ten years into the future. A pipe dream, perhaps, given their occupation. But the thought made him smile nonetheless. He'd give anything to have it: _them,_ just keeping one another company. Laying in bed and sharing gossip or talking unbearably seriously about the stars in the sky. It was all so saccharine and he found he couldn't bring himself to mind.

Lavellan was flipping through reports, brow creased tight; peacefully oblivious. One side of his lip caught between his teeth as he looked between pages, appearing more wound-up by the second.

“Don’t do that too long,” Dorian scolded, voice rough with sleep, “they’ll make a statue of you and then what’ll you do?” The look disappeared, replaced with a soft smile as Lavellan set aside his work. He leaned down to press a kiss to Dorian’s cheek, which, in anticipation, he leaned up to meet.

“Good morning to you too,” Lavellan said, “surprised to see you up so early.”

“I couldn’t miss the view.” He replied, flashing what was probably a rather dopey-looking smile. Still, it earned a soft laugh, so he was content.

“Tell you what,” Lavellan hummed, tucking his paperwork into a neat pile, “how do you feel about breakfast?”

“Ambivalent. It’s the most mediocre of meals; no-one ever commits crimes of passion at breakfast.”

“Helpful, thank you.” Lavellan pushed himself to his feet, grunting past a few pops and cracks. He jerked his head towards the flap of the tent. “Come on. I’ll make you something.”

“Should I prepare myself?” Dorian wrestled his way out of the blankets and grabbed a belt and his outer robes so he wouldn’t feel quite so _naked._ Lavellan stationed himself beside the flap, arms folded over his chest.

“You wound me.” He accused, “I can cook perfectly well. Used to serve breakfast to one of the richest men in Antiva.”

“Oh, only _one of_ them?” Dorian ribbed, fixing his collar to his best ability. He ran a haphazard hand through his hair to brush back his fringe from his face. Lavellan stopped him before they stepped outside, fixing the fold of his collar behind his neck.

“What about omelettes?” He asked next, one hand holding loosely to Dorian’s upper arm. They stepped into the morning chill and Lavellan led the way towards the fire. Refugees and Inquisition soldiers alike were laid out around the camp in bedrolls. Only a few were up and about already, save for the early morning watchmen.

“What _about_ them?”

 _“Dorian,”_ Lavellan sighed, picking through the dry food storage. No eggs to be found, unsurprisingly, but there _was_ a grand assortment of vegetables. Dorian sat himself down by the fire, ready for a show.

“Omelettes are fine. Are you offering?” Lavellan came back, bringing an iron skillet and a matching stand with him. He wedged the stand in amongst the embers, then tested its balance with a little push. Satisfied, he placed the skillet down.

“Sure. Maybe when we get back to Skyhold.” He replied, focusing more on the fire than the conversation. He let the skillet warm over the waning fire as he got to work cutting. “I don’t suppose you cook much, do you?”

“What Altus do you know would be caught _dead_ in a kitchen?” Lavellan placed some tomatoes, a few cloves of garlic, and a halved leek into the pan. They all hissed in response to the heat but he was undeterred. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but _my_ skill lies in burning your enemies to neat little piles of ash. It’s not exactly conducive to light sautéeing.”

“Fair point.” Lavellan replied. He shuffled the items in the pan to keep tendrils of smoke from rising and ruining their cute little breakfast. “I could teach you. Granted, I mostly know omelettes. Oh, and crêpes. Orlesians _love_ their food cooked in two dimensions. Personally, though, I like the ones you light on fire.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’d do just fine at that.”

“The liquor makes it a lot better, to be honest.”

“There’s liquor in it?” Dorian asked. Then, “now that I’ve said it, I’m not actually surprised.”

“Well, yeah, it’s Orlais. Figures, right?” Lavellan chortled, snatching up a small wood bowl and placing the vegetables inside. Next, he searched out some salt pork and bread for toast. He let them both sit in the pan while he settled down for the moment.

“How long will it be until Skyhold?” Dorian asked, leaning back on his hands. Lavellan watched the pan attentively, ensuring nothing burned in the interim. It was tiring just to watch him; already hard at work in the simplest things.

“Oh, a week? Maybe two. I wanted to stop by Val Royeaux for a few things.” He flipped the piece of pork in the pan. “Which reminds me,” Lavellan sat back down, looking squarely at the mage. “I heard something about an amulet…?”

“Now, how’d you hear that?” Lavellan gave a vague shrug. “Leliana, then. Right.” Dorian folded his arms over his chest and watched the flames with a poorly-suppressed frown. “Just leave it to me, would you?”

“If you insist.” Lavellan folded easily, “Just wanted to know if you’d be dealing with that while we’re there.” He plated the other two items and then set the skillet aside to cool. The food was pushed towards Dorian’s end of the log they sat upon. The change in subject had ruined his appetite a bit, however, so he left it alone.

“Yes, fine.” He said shortly. “And what’ll you be doing?”

“I was going to stop by the book store, but if you want me there…?” Lavellan's head quirked in question and Dorian waved him off.

“You needn’t follow me everywhere, amatus,” He replied, forcing a bit more cheer, “only to the ends of the Earth. But I don’t expect we’ll find that in the market of Val Royeaux.”

“You never know what Barnabus is selling,” Lavellan murmured, picking a tomato from the bowl and popping it into his mouth. Dorian’s gaze was brought to the edge of camp, where Cassandra and Blackwall were emerging from the treeline, the former carrying a bundle in her arms. Spotting the Inquisitor, they meandered in the direction of the fire.

“You need help with that, you just say the word, right?” Lavellan asked, still chatting. Dorian glanced back at him, brows raised. He’d missed out on whatever had come before.

“Right, yes,” he replied, giving a tight smile, “thank you.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra greeted, the two warriors idling awkwardly at Dorian’s side of the sitting log.

“Cassandra, Blackwall,” Lavellan's head dipped in a sort of bow, “what do you need?”

“We found this--” Cassandra started, turning out the bundle in her arms and revealing a small, pudgy face, “--in the forest not far.” Lavellan let out a startled laugh.

“You two work quickly, don’t you?” Dorian teased, shrinking back minutely just as Lavellan sat up, one knee braced on the log, to take the child. Cassandra passed them over top Dorian’s head and he slouched to avoid being hit by the layer of burlap they were wrapped in.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lavellan murmured, a bit distracted as he sat back down carefully, “this couldn’t be Blackwall’s. Hasn’t got a beard.”

“Very funny.” Blackwall grunted, brow creased with his frown.

“Oh, I'm _so_ pleased you've finally figured that bit out.” Dorian shifted to turn towards Lavellan as soon as he’d sat once more, one arm cradling the child as his opposite pushed the softer inner blanket away from their head. He thought at first that the baby might be asleep, but upon a closer look, they had one red fist curled tight against their mouth. Their eyes were wide open, watching the elf with nothing less than awe. They made no sound.

“Where were they left?” Lavellan asked, his voice a bit softer. The pad of his forefinger tapped the tiny, rotund nose and the baby wriggled a bit, letting out an odd little noise.

“In a camp at the edge of the lake,” Cassandra replied, “they…”

“They were the only one to survive.” Blackwall voiced, a bit gruffer. “Looks like wolves, or maybe demons. Nothing left of them when we got there.”

“You’d think wolves or demons would find this a tasty snack.” Dorian murmured, matter-of-fact, leaning over to get a better look at the fat, red face. Their flushed little hands wriggled from their swaddling and they moved disjointedly, asking for something they couldn’t understand. He looked up at the Inquisitor holding them, then, and pushed down the weak ache in his chest when he saw the elf's little smile.

“We found them hidden under a broken barrel. We might’ve missed them if not for the crying.”

“That’s good, then,” Lavellan hummed, rocking the child gently. “Suppose they’ll need a family.” Cassandra glanced back towards the treeline.

“Go on. I’ll take care of it.” He ordered.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she said, giving a curt bow. Blackwall lingered with them a bit longer.

“I’ve been getting to know the people, Your Worship,” he said, “helping them. I think I could find a family for the little one.” Lavellan gave him a nod and then he was dismissed. Dorian watched the warrior thump away. When he looked back, Lavellan was now cooing something towards the child in another language.

“He’s certainly making the most of his new freedom, isn’t he?” Dorian drawled. “I’ve never seen him so eager to help orphans.”

“Perhaps you’ve never looked hard enough, then.” Lavellan replied, eyes still on the baby. He did something to make them laugh and for a moment, he looked prouder than Dorian had ever seen. Damn him--his heart couldn't take this, so early in the morning. Lavellan glanced up, looking for Blackwall, a small frown on his lips.

“He deserves the freedom.” He murmured, “that’s clear enough.” Dorian followed his gaze to where the would-be Warden already laboured away, helping one of the soldiers to load up a cart of requisitioned supplies. How long had he been awake?

“He reminds you of yourself, doesn’t he?” Dorian sighed.

“Suppose.” Lavellan’s line of sight changed. “Say, take the child for a moment, would you?” Dorian snapped to attention, not offering his arms.

“No thank you.” Was his automatic reply. Lavellan, careful as ever, held out the bundle in both hands and Dorian leaned back to avoid.

“Come on,” Lavellan goaded, “don’t be shy. You won’t get bitten.”

 _“Biting_ isn’t what I’m worried about--” Dorian ducked out of the way, standing from his place on the log. “--it’s more the various assorted fluids that’ll get on me soon as I touch it.”

“Dorian--”

“I don’t even know how to hold the thing. What’s to say it won’t start crying its eyes out and wake the entire continent?”

 _“Dorian.”_ Lavellan was laughing, now, mostly at his expense. “Just take the baby. I’ll help you.”

He idled for a moment longer, arms still drawn in close. Then, sinking with a sigh, he held out his hands. Lavellan rose, bodily instructing him on how to hold them. The baby wriggled, but then looked quite happy in his arms. It was with a sinking feeling Dorian realized he no longer had any good excuses.

“Ah, a natural!” Lavellan teased, dashing a knuckle against his chin, “I knew you could do it.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian adjusted the child in his arms, standing stiff, “let’s just hurry this up, why don’t we?” Lavellan stepped away, murmuring a quiet, _“yes, alright,”_ and then rushed off to another part of camp. From what Dorian could see, he was striking up a chat with a refugee--or perhaps an agent--and it looked to be something serious. Or else just boring.

He sat back down, busying himself with not dropping the baby in his temporary care. Their eyes were wide and hazel-green and one of their little hands made a grabbing motion towards him. He let them grip his forefinger, a small sigh passing his lips.

“He’s terrible, isn’t he?” He murmured, speaking to the baby more than himself. The child made a babbling noise, blowing a bit of spit across its lip. It threw its arms and made a sound more like a squawk. “Yes, quite.” The baby quieted. Dorian relaxed an inch, but still stayed wary.

“I miss him already, too.” The baby pulled his finger to its gummy mouth so he wiggled it from their grip.

“Tell you what, you’re better at this than some of the lords I’ve met.” He muttered, distracted from his boyish, lovesick pining as he wiped his finger on the burlap. Glancing up, he found Lavellan’s conversation mostly finished. Whomever he was speaking to, they looked on-edge. They handed him something and then, shiftily, they left him where he stood.


	37. A Firm Hand Strikes and Shields; Wills Whittle Without a Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My favourite thing abt dragon age is how much it references mass effect.
> 
> possible TW: mentions of child abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on vacation tomorrow, hence the early update. The Sunday update may or may not be late for the same reason! Have a good week, y'all.

“Well,” Dorian chimed, wandering the spacious bedroom as Lavellan built a fire in the hearth, “it’s charming, don’t you think? All the ugly tapestries.” He appeased an especially gauche-looking one; all reds and greens, a scene of a massacre--or perhaps a birth?--laid out in a thousand stitches. It looked more yellowed in the dying sunlight. It streamed into the bedroom from the wall opposite, which was possessed of windows and little else. Dorian wandered towards them and the bed that lay between. The layers of translucent white drapes from the canopy parted with his one hand. Then, he was free to splay out over it in a lazy heap.

“Better than statues, if you ask me.” Lavellan replied, climbing to his feet and brushing the soot and ash from his knees. He turned, strolling towards the bed. The small kindness of the unfamiliar bedroom was an act of chivalry--or perhaps a debt--but it was welcome if it meant they would be sleeping on proper mattresses. Doubly so, given the four secure walls and relative privacy.

 _“Oy,”_ he grunted, upon finding the mage taking up most of the cross-section of the bed, “what’s this about?” He plucked up a tasseled pillow and smacked Dorian’s legs.

“I’m antagonizing you. Is it working?” Dorian asked dryly, kicking away the attack with little passion. He sat up on his elbows just as Lavellan tossed the pillow at his chest.

“I’m already flying into a blind rage.” He replied, crawling up onto the bed atop him. “Maker only knows what I’ll do next.” The canopy drapes soothed in at his back, trapping them in a featherlight shelter.

“Kiss me black and blue?” Dorian suggested, simpering. Lavellan caught his lips but quickly parted to let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Awh, woe,” he bemoaned, “I’m feeling fickle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dorian replied, voice a bit higher in exasperation.

“It means I’m flighty.” Lavellan replied, sitting back on his haunches right at Dorian’s hips. Said man let out a disappointed groan.

“Walked into that one,” he murmured, hands sliding up the thighs planted on either side of him.

“There are _so_ many luxuries to peruse,” Lavellan sighed, continuing what he was saying, still with a layer of melodrama. One knuckle at the underside of Dorian’s chin had him lifting his head, “but _this_ is the only one I want.” Dorian let out a laugh that surprised him.

“How long have you been working on that one?” He ribbed, smiling wide.

“Oh, you know, here and there. A few weeks.” Dorian’s continued laughter was muffled by another kiss. "Did it work? Are you charmed?"

“What do you say to a compromise?” Dorian asked once they’d parted, not answering the question.

“I’d say _anything is fine, so long as you’re with me._ That’s good, huh?” Little kisses were peppered along Dorian’s neck and he slid his hands up over Lavellan’s back in return. One of them tangled in his hair as a few miniature marks were made at the base of his neck.

“Truly, you have a silver tongue.” Dorian replied, appeasing him. “I’ve never been so flattered. Now, how about a bath?”

“Say no more, you’ve already convinced me.” Lavellan slipped off him, smiling giddily, and then found his hand. He pulled him up and along towards the powder room.

-

Lavellan leaned back against Dorian’s chest, the wet rag sliding over his already damp skin. His arms were up, leaning against the sides of the tub, and Dorian fought to not look too hard at where the anchor sat on his left side. There seemed to be little slashes curling up along his forearm, now, and he wasn’t sure if they’d been there a few weeks ago.

“And there they were, bare asses shining in the moonlight,” Lavellan recounted, head resting limply against Dorian’s collarbone. “It would’ve been funnier if they hadn’t scared off the halla. Mother made me herd them back in and it took all night.” He gestured lazily with his right hand, his marked one hanging limp and all but useless.

“I don’t suppose they lived it down so quickly.” His one hand still ran the cloth over Lavellan’s skin, though his other didn’t try so hard to be coy. It traced the gently-sloping lines of ink that ran the length of his torso. His thumb trailed down across his ribs, chasing the burgundy lines, and he felt Lavellan shudder against him.

“Hardly. The nicknames are relentless.” He said, his voice a bit more hushed.

“Any especially shocking ones?”

“What, so you can tease me?” Lavellan accused, recovering his tone. His unmarked hand dropped to lay atop Dorian’s knee where it poked out of the water; thumb massaging into the rounded, jutting shapes.

“Naturally.” He replied, leaning his chin against the side of Lavellan’s head. His movement with the rag slowed until he just had the one arm wrapped around the elf, thumb brushing back and forth against his abdomen.

“I once dropped a tea kettle and broke it on my foot. Half the clan called me _ise’shos_ for _years.”_ Lavellan supplied, sounding more bitter, “it means _fire-foot._ How stupid is that?”

“Ah, I’ll have to use it; add it to the list of things to call out in the heat of the moment."

“Don’t you dare. I’m serious, Dorian,” Lavellan worked to turn around, but the other man's legs boxed him in, only allowing him to look back in an awkward stretch. “Don’t. I’ll do _something._ And you’ll not like it.”

“Oh, I’m in _trouble_ now,” Dorian goaded, “go on, let’s think of a punishment.”

“I’m sure _you_ have some nicknames.” Lavellan said, changing the subject.

“Certainly,” Dorian crossed his legs at the ankles, holding Lavellan a bit tighter, “I’m thinking flogging. Wouldn’t be too bad, given the right instrument.”

“I’m sure that Maevaris would be more than happy to give me a list of endearments to use against you. She likes me better than you, you know. She told me so.” Lavellan said, edging on childish bragging. Dorian rolled his eyes, even if Lavellan couldn’t see it, and allowed the subject to change.

“Go ahead. You’ll get more than you bargained for with her.” Lavellan leaned forward, pulling away and grumbling something under his breath that might’ve been elvish. There was a splashing as he scooped some of the bathwater to wipe over his legs.

While he was bent forward, Dorian had a full view of his back. His eye caught on the sight laid out before him: a tapestry of scars, all of a kind. He’d felt them before; the skin, rough beneath his fingers. He caught glimpses of them in the past, but he’d never had the chance to study them like this; without preoccupation or too-low light.

He ghosted a finger over one, then another joined. He barely touched the skin, but Lavellan sat still and the sloshing of the water quickly trailed off. The marks were all overlaying slashes; none of them very deep, but where they all intersected--over either of his shoulder blades--the skin was rough and torn from hundreds of cuts that had been made, scarred, and then made again. They seemed to be more clustered on his right side than his left.

Dorian smoothed the flat of his hand over the skin, pushing down a nosy question or two. It wasn’t his place to ask about their origin, but it didn’t stop him wondering in silence. Lavellan didn’t fill it, so an uneasily expectant tension rose. Dorian pressed the pad of his thumb gently into the roughened skin at the right side.

“Does it… hurt?” He asked, testing the waters as casually as he could. If Lavellan snapped back, that would be it, and he would leave it alone. The splashing returned, though it was gentler this time.

“No.” Lavellan replied easily, “it doesn’t.” He ran a hand over his damp hair, “I’m afraid their origin isn’t especially dramatic, compared to some others.” Dorian managed a bittersweet smile; pleased that Lavellan felt able to share, though it was tainted by the worry that he’d somehow forced it.

“We all need to have our boring little details,” he reassured, doing his best to not push, “even you; the enigmatic, devilishly charming saviour of the continent.” Lavellan only let out a hum and then they were quiet once more.

“It was my fault,” he spoke after one long moment, voice only at a murmur. Dorian wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it, at first, until he spoke again, “we had these… rules. I was considered a son to the Keeper, so I had to train and abide by all of them; some artefact of _the old ways,_ or whatever. Left over from old elven knights, and that.” He brought his arms up, resting the elbows at the sides of the tub. He leaned more to one side, losing his hand in his fringe.

“You know me,” he muttered, letting out a wry laugh, “I’ve always played a bit loose with rules.” His voice died out, so he cleared it with a cough. Dorian couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to for his heart to start aching. He slid his hand up, landing at his shoulder so he might tug him back in. Lavellan complied with little contest and sank against his chest once again.

“A firm hand shapes the child,” Lavellan hummed, “that’s what my mother used to say.” Dorian’s arms encircled him and he laid his roughened hands atop them, thumbs catching the fine black hairs along his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Dorian replied lowly, at a loss for what else to say. He couldn’t even think up a topical joke; not that it would be especially appropriate.

“Don’t be,” Lavellan said, “Nothing to be done. Not all bad, though.”

“No?”

“It’s proof that I’m stronger than what they did to make me hurt. That’s one thing they didn’t account for, I think; that I don’t break.”

“They never _do_ expect that, do they?” Lavellan leaned his head back against Dorian’s shoulder and a kiss was laid on his jaw. “You _are_ unusually resilient. I’ve seen you take more arrows than anyone else who’s still alive to brag about it.”

“That’s on bad aim, ‘s all.”

“Well, let’s hope it stays that way, lest they put us both out of a job.” Lavellan’s lopsided smile, though Dorian couldn’t see all of it, slowly dropped to something more serious. Determined, maybe.

“I’m glad I have these scars.” He murmured, almost like a mantra. He stared dimly into the middle-distance, worrying Dorian into a frown. “Probably an awful thing to say, but it’s the truth,” Lavellan’s hands squeezed the arms wrapped around him, lips pursing tight, “if I can’t forget, I won’t repeat it.”

“And you wonder why people idolize you,” Dorian murmured, a lighter edge in his tone to keep Lavellan from turning too serious. Hopefully it could also cover the concern twisting in his gut. He pressed a kiss to his shoulder, holding him a little tighter, “you make everyone around you look like _such_ a sinner.”

“What? I don’t.” Lavellan croaked, seeming to snap out of his mood. He let out a weak laugh. “I’m one, too. Don’t leave me out.” Dorian pressed a kiss to his neck and then Lavellan was wriggling in his arms to turn and face him.

“What self-respecting sinner would _ever_ be so righteous?” Dorian jabbed back, loosing his grip so they could adjust to be chest-to-chest. “You’re too noble for your own good, my dear. I absolutely pale in comparison; I can’t believe it.”

 _“Stop,”_ Lavellan groaned, stealing a kiss from his lips to silence him for a moment. His water-wicked arms wrapped around Dorian’s torso, his toothy smile burying in the crook of his neck.

“What’ll people think when they find out?” Dorian mused quietly, one hand coming to card through the elf’s hair. He grinned, but hid it (albeit poorly) as soon as Lavellan pulled back.

“Is this you antagonizing me again?” He accused, jabbing a knuckle at Dorian’s shoulder. “Because it’s starting to work.”

“Oh, you caught me.” Dorian sighed, “pity. I was hoping for some good make-up sex.”

 _“Maker--”_ Lavellan sighed, cutting himself off with a defeated-sounding laugh. He slipped away to climb out of the bath, plucking up one of the garish, silky bathrobes he found. He barely tied it before he was holding out another towards Dorian still in the bath.

“Come on.” He invited, jerking his head towards the bedroom door. “I’m pruny enough. Antagonize me somewhere with legroom and you might just get your way. Could use something to keep my mind wandering.”

“I'm nothing if not a pretty distraction," he agreed, "ah, but you're getting my hopes up, amatus. That’s a dangerous thing.” Upon hopping out of the bath, he was enveloped first by smooth silk and then by one warm arm around his waist.

“I like danger. Keeps things interesting.”

“Really?” They moved towards the bedroom, “I’ve hardly even noticed.” Lavellan, losing his grip around the other man's waist, pushed him playfully towards the cracked-open door.


	38. To The End and Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little update bc I love positive reinforcement. Ft. healthy relationship strategies

Lavellan held the small trinket loosely in one hand, pretending to weigh it by feel with a lazy bobbing of his wrist. His eyes, rather than on the item, were fixed across the market, upon where two men argued quietly in the shade. He glanced back to the fidgeting merchant before him, sliding him a few royals and then slipping the pendant into one pocket. He spared another impatient glance towards Dorian and the merchant--Ponchard, or something of the like--and deflated with a tiny sigh. It looked like he’d be there a while longer.

It was at a leisurely pace that he moved farther into the market. The sun always seemed to be out in Val Royeaux and it warmed every strand of his unstyled hair. Noblemen and women brushed past him in twos and threes, fanning themselves in the springtime heat. It was novel; how different the crowds were when no one recognized him on sight. He passed the gate to the docks and caught a waft of _port smell_ that made him unusually nostalgic.

He charted a lazy course for the café and strolled, hands in his pockets, as he scuffed each step along the stone-paved ground. Squinting up at the shocking blue sky, he tuned into the idle chatter that enveloped him. Lavellan couldn’t spot him in the crowd, but the voice of a beggar carried over the busy foot traffic. He called out in something other than Common, every few words punctuated by the ringing of what must’ve been a hand bell. As Lavellan passed the open-walled café, he caught sight of the man perched up against the bricked corner.

Lavellan reached into his pocket and handed the man his few spare coins as he passed. Stepping into the cool shade of the building, he was followed by a heavily-accented _“Andraste bless you.”_

Sidling up to the counter, he ordered himself a pastry and scoped out the room as he waited. Though he hadn’t noticed upon his entrance, he found the Seeker tucked away in one corner of the café, poring intensely over a leatherbound book. It was with a smile he that noticed she was still wearing her gloves.

Pastry in hand, he weaved between tables until he reached hers. Loudly, he cleared his throat. She dropped her book in one harsh movement, making it clap shut against the table. At the same instant, she looked up at him, wide-eyed. Upon facing his surprised grin, an embarrassed flush rose in her neck and ears.

“Inquisitor.” She greeted, breathy with surprise. “I did not expect to see you.” Lavellan pulled out the chair across from her and sat himself down. He tore off a piece of his pastry and slid it across the table to her.

“What is it this time?” He asked, gesturing with a handful of bread towards her closed book. She relaxed an inch, bringing her gloved hands back to smooth over the rough cover.

“A love story,” she provided, “the Prince’s Honour.”

“Doesn’t sound _too_ filthy.” He said between bites.

 _“Lavellan,”_ she sighed, at once dubiously casual in how she chided him, “a love story doesn’t need _filth_ to be worthwhile. It’s about the _passion_ of it all; about two star-crossed lovers risking everything to be together.” He put up two defensive hands, one still pinched around his mid-day snack.

“Fine, got it. What’s it about, then?” Her eyes lit up and she nearly beamed. She held his offered pastry in one hand, never actually eating it. It was then he noticed a glass near her other arm, long since cooled off.

“It’s all about a Grand Duke--or, he starts out as one--he becomes a Prince when his uncle dies. He competes in the Grand Tourney to regain honour, but a woman catches his eye. She’s the blacksmith to one of the competing noblemen.” She regaled, gesturing with both hands. Lavellan leaned back in his seat, legs crossing. The pastry dwindled quickly between nods and hums.

 _“Then,_ he has to risk the beheading of this noble and making this woman--the woman he _loves--_ face absolute poverty, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Except quit the Tourney.” He interrupted. Cassandra’s lips parted in argument before she caught herself, brow knitting. Her lips snapped shut and, pensively, she considered his suggestion.

“I suppose… he _could_ do that, yes.” She murmured. A frown crossed her lips and Lavellan sat up, his smile dropping.

“Oh, but where would be the drama in that?” He corrected quickly, hands slapping onto the table, “the stakes! His honour! It’s right there in the title. Silly me.”

“Perhaps!” She replied, her pep returning as soon as the plot hole was swiftly covered up. “It is clearly an allusion to Orlais. I’m sure there is plenty to consider that the author doesn’t mention.”

“Naturally,” Lavellan drawled, nodding along, “Chevalier’s code, or what have you. Orlesian stuff.” Cassandra’s gaze fell back to the book and she smoothed a hand over the cover once more.

“Would you like to borrow it when I’m finished?” She asked, finally taking a bite of the pastry. She followed it with a swig of whatever drink she’d neglected in her reading.

“Maybe. Could get Dorian to narrate and I’ll act it out. I put on a good show, you know.”

“What you do in your quarters is your business, Inquisitor,” she replied pointedly, taking another tentative bite of her pastry.

“Would be a bit quieter than the usual, though, I’m sure.” He laced his hands over his abdomen, taking sick joy in how she reddened. She only shook her head.

“Now, _what_ are you doing to our dear Seeker, oh _Lord Inquisitor?”_ Dorian drawled, surprising Lavellan in his seat. He wriggled to look up and over to where the mage approached, “from a distance, I thought she’d combusted.”

“Just teasing,” he replied, “come, sit. Did you get anywhere with that merchant?” Lavellan gestured to the empty chair to his left and Dorian quickly dropped into it. The way he sank said _solemn,_ but still he plastered on an easy half-smile. He propped up an elbow on the arm rest and leaned his head onto a few of his fingers.

“Fine.” He replied shortly, “I’m working it out.” Lavellan tilted his head, expectant. Dorian didn’t budge.

“Alright,” Lavellan said after a moment, folding, “good to hear it.” He glanced towards Cassandra, who was looking between them both. She hid it behind another sip of her drink. The party of three was quiet for a moment until Lavellan unfurled himself from his sitting position.

“If that’s all, I suggest we head back to the manor. Enjoy our last night’s rest before some good old-fashioned camping.” He pushed his chair back in and led the others back into the populated city street.

-

Lavellan fixed the knot of his belt for a second time, brow furrowed in concentration. It just didn’t _sit_ right. Not that anyone would look him over and take the piss out of him for how his belt looked, but he _needed_ this. He studied himself in the tall mirror, turning in different directions to appraise his armor. The troublesome article sat atop the precisely-folded silken favour he’d worked hard to keep clean and free of tatters. He sunk with a sigh once he saw how the tail of his belt persisted to misbehave.

“May I?” Dorian asked from the bed. Lavellan glanced in his direction, finding him lounging quite casually, already in his full robes. He made a gesture towards him in offering but Lavellan waved him off with a sigh.

“Whatever,” the elf grumbled, “fuckin’ thing.” He stuffed his hands huffily into his pockets, surprised to find a trinket exactly where he’d left it.

“Let me know if you change your mind.” Dorian replied, clearly working hard to sound less amused. Lavellan trailed over to the bed, patting Dorian’s legs to make him shuffle over. He took up the space revealed, bouncing a bit in place as he held tight to the charm in his pocket.

“I have something for you.” He said. Dorian sat up, face wound into suspicion.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.” Lips curled into a frown, Dorian obeyed, holding out one hand once Lavellan pulled it up.

“I have enough surprises,” he murmured, “I’m nearly at capacity. This had better be an especially fetching one, and _not_ another insect.” Lavellan laid the charm in his open palm and closed his fingers around it.

“As if you need to warn me,” Lavellan scoffed, “you can look now.” Dorian took his hand back and blinked his eyes open, studying the item in his grasp. He assessed it first with his gaze and then with his other hand, running a finger over the smooth metal. It was a snake, wound up in a knot and biting its own tail. Its eyes were tiny blue-green gems against the darker obsidian of its body.

“It reminded me of you,” Lavellan supplied, answering the unspoken question. “It’s the eyes, I think. I figured I’d give you a courting gift; though I suppose now you can wear it ‘til you get your other amulet back.” Dorian let out a weak laugh, thumb still tracing the winding body of the serpent.

“Does that mean I’ll have to give it back once I do?” He asked, adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow, even as he tried to hide it. Lavellan let out a quiet laugh and pushed gently at his arm.

“Of course not. It’s yours until the very end.” _As am I,_ he yearned to say. Tentatively, Lavellan placed his hand atop Dorian’s and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“As am I,” he murmured, for once swallowing his nerves. When he pulled away, Dorian’s eyes were wide and frozen on him. He sat stiff, as if he’d been glued in place. Lavellan slunk back an inch, clearing his throat. Perhaps that was a bit _too_ like a confession. As if released from a spell, Dorian’s fingers clasped tight over the pendant once more and he drew his hand in close.

“Thank you.” He said in earnest, snatching up Lavellan’s hand with his free one. He seemed to flounder awkwardly for a moment, “I’ll keep it with me.”

“Good.” Pressing a grinning kiss to Dorian’s hand, Lavellan climbed to his feet, tugging the mage up with him. “Again, consider it a courting gift. So... whatever comes next, it's your turn to do it.”

Lavellan snatched up his blade where it leaned against the nightstand and sheathed it at his hip. As an afterthought, he swept by the small writing desk to one corner and snatched up the letter he’d drafted not twenty minutes earlier. Carefully, he tucked it into his jacket without flashing the mage its contents.

"Is that it?" Dorian drawled, tucking the pedant safely into his pocket. He'd have to find something to hang it from as soon as he was able.

Stepping out of the manor, Lavellan hung back as the party members made their way to their mounts. He caught up to a scout and palmed him the letter, murmuring a _“for the spymaster,”_ before he was jogging to join them. With luck, Ponchard would cave yet.


	39. Blind Hands Grope for Strength; the Only Thing to Soften His Own Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and i Whoops (AKA: not all arguments come to a natural conclusion and both these lovesick idiots have their bad habits)

“You’d think you’d have someone to do this for you by now,” Dorian mused aloud, plucking a heart-shaped leaf from the hairy stem of one wild plant or another. He added it to the growing collection in his other hand, eyes drifting downstream to where Lavellan was picking along the edge of the water.

“I do,” he replied, rising from his crouch with some strain. “But they always get the wrong ones. You have no idea how many times I’ve asked for ghoul’s beard and gotten rashvine instead; I’m starting to think the scouts might be colourblind.” He wandered down the shore to the mage, holding open his leather pouch to take the cuttings.

“And now here we are, working away,” Dorian lamented, “I’ve an idea: perhaps instead of taking over every task yourself, you get someone else to do that bit. Let _them_ make sure they get the right plants.”

“Why do you think you’re here?” Lavellan asked, turning back to the water.

“Yes, very funny,” came the scoffed reply, “me, overseeing menial tasks. Hilarious.” Dorian straightened up, folding his arms over his chest as he continued to watch the Inquisitor pick through rocks and dirt.

“You know, dear, for someone who drinks and debauches as much as you do, you’re horrible at relaxing. Perhaps you should let someone else take over sometime. See how it suits you.” Lavellan let out a vague hum.

“Nice idea,” he replied, stuffing a few pale roots into the satchel, “but I’m not one for that sort of…” he trailed off, hands stuttering a moment as his thoughts did. “...I don’t know. Don't like not being in control. Makes me feel weak, I guess.”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you insist upon picking your own wildflowers?”

“Yeah.”

 _“Alright,”_ Dorian folded, “not the worst excuse in the world. I can work with that.” Lavellan slung the satchel over his shoulder and quirked his head in question.

“Work with it? What’s there to work on?” Lavellan asked, a bit more exasperated as he gestured, “I see nothing to work on.”

“Maybe _you_ don’t. But _I_ think you deserve to relax. Take it from me: sometimes doing nothing is the best thing for you to do.” Lavellan let out an abrupt laugh.

“Dorian, have you _met_ me?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide their involuntary shaking. “When have I ever been known to do nothing at all?”

“Fair point,” Dorian put an arm around his shoulders, tugging him in close. “But it’s never too late to start. Perhaps a holiday is in order?”

“Tell you what: if we both survive Corypheus, we can take some time off. Maybe visit Rivain. Get you to join a pirate crew.” Lavellan leaned into him, droopy in how he smiled up at him and how he dragged his feet.

“A charming idea. Shall I take you to Tevinter, then? Enroll you in mage college?”

“You could come up with worse ideas.”

“I could show you all the best shops. The street shows, too.” Lavellan let out a soft chuckle.

“Then perhaps I could bring you home with me to my clan. Introduce you to my siblings, maybe get you to eat bugs.”

“We were having a lovely moment and now you’ve ruined it.” Dorian chastised, pulling away from his side by a short distance; barely a stride. Lavellan reached out to lace together their fingers and tug him back in. They strolled lazily along the stream, one ear open for trouble, should it arise in the forest around them.

“I think I’d like you to meet them, in all honesty. Bugs or no.” Lavellan said, bumping shoulders with him. Dorian’s smile was small and sweet as he watched his step on the uneven ground.

“That’s it, then. Our tentative plans.” He replied.

“So it seems.”

-

It began the week prior to the party’s breach of the Arbor Wilds. The troops were already well on their way to fortifying a position and more arrived each day, lying in wait for their Inquisitor to arrive and champion their efforts. Orlesian chevaliers populated more and more camps as they headed south and, given time, fewer soldiers in the camps spoke Common. At any given time, there was at least _one_ scout capable of doing so, but they were often well outnumbered.

It was at one such camp where the party had stopped, tired from their days’ ride and in need of food and rest. Blackwall was off attending to mounts while Cassandra lingered near the fire, drying out her boots in silent company. It was when Lavellan stopped by for his ration of thick, grey stew that things went amiss.

First, he queued alongside his fellow soldiers. Tired though the camp was, they were politely amiable, and he made little small-talk in broken Common. Then, after a long minute, he began to waver. It was one of the Orlesian soldiers; a young farm hand--one without much of a grasp of the language--who noticed first. Lavellan was pallid and droopy, forehead beading with perspiration even as the cooling sun perched itself behind the distant trees. The camp, if anything, was unseasonably cold. Still, Lavellan’s breaths grew ragged and long as if panting, more like a dog in the heat than a man. It was this soldier who managed a clumsy, _“sick?”_ to ask the Inquisitor how he felt. The gloved hand on Lavellan’s shoulder seemed to tip him off-balance and he stumbled backward.

There was another soldier behind him in the queue, quick enough to keep him from falling but not so much in a graceful fashion. The alarmed shouts drew attention fast; namely that of the Seeker posted nearby. A few soldiers lowered the Inquisitor--who was now wracked violently with cold, shivering sweat--onto the ragged ground. Cassandra pushed her way through the assembling crowd, coming to kneel attentively at his side. It was with worried, careful hands that she brushed back his already sweat-matted fringe from his pallid forehead. It was fortunate that one of the few soldiers familiar with Common were nearby; Cassandra’s call for a surgeon was carried out swiftly and Lavellan could be carted off to a secluded tent.

He had been nursed back from weakness within the evening, given some time and whatever healing herbs they could get their hands on. Once asleep, he spent the night incoherent, draped in sweat and burning up a fever. By mid-morning the next day, he could walk and talk more normally, but he was weak and his hands still shook. The party stayed close; ensuring their arrival to the next camp came swiftly and with little difficulty. But the Maker would not allow such simplicity.

Three days after his first collapse, Lavellan would break frequently to empty his stomach onto the off-road scenery. He rode on horseback almost exclusively, with at least one party member leading with the reigns at any given time. He rode limp, shaking with each trotted step and slouching like a wilting flower no matter how much he rested. Within five days of his first collapse, he had little appetite and what little _was_ consumed would be shortly emptied out. There was no answer as to the cause of his illness, nor a way to treat it. All they could do was to wait and to pray that this wouldn’t be a long, drawn-out end.

Dorian ignored the warnings; that he might suffer from the same thing as Lavellan, given they had no inkling as to whether it could spread. He aided the healers and surgeons in each camp where he could. When he couldn’t, he simply waited. He sat himself at Lavellan’s bedside, more often than not, and would read. Sometimes he’d tell the story aloud, others he would lie next to him and read in silence. No matter the length of their travel or the relative coherence (or irritability) of the elf, he would be there.

It was a week and three days past his first collapse and the party started to question. Why did they continue to move to the Wilds? If Lavellan died, what would they do? No one had an answer. Not really. But Blackwall soldiered on, as was his nature, and Cassandra stayed devoted to the man she served. Dorian waited and worried in private, but became the voice of contention more often than not. _He_ was the one who began the questioning. Who wondered aloud whether Corypheus could still be stopped, given their headway.

Two weeks later and things were looking up. They were only a few days from their fortifications in the Arbor Wilds and Lavellan was now able to walk on his own. He would still be sequestered to bed as soon as they made camp, but he was feeling well enough to joke. Dorian had grabbed him a bowl of grey-brown _something_ to fill his stomach and took up his post at Lavellan’s bedside.

It was an offhand comment; nothing more. Anyone else and he might’ve considered it coincidence.

“My lungs feel heavy,” Lavellan said, letting out a wheeze of a sigh. Dorian hadn’t thought much of it at first. But then, he got to thinking, as he was wont to do. Then, from thinking, he moved to theorizing. Then dread. It was with a book of _Thedosian Herb Guidebook_ under his arm that he settled down in his seat that night, two weeks and two days after the first collapse.

“No story for me today?” Lavellan rasped, lolling his head in Dorian’s direction. His eyes drooped, barely able to take the weight of consciousness. Dorian swallowed a heavy, sinking feeling and forced a smile.

“Unfortunately not. I’ve run out of stories for the time being.”

“Ah. Pity. Though you could always make one up.” Dorian’s lips parted in response before he caught himself. Then, tentatively, he slipped the tome open on his lap. He thumbed through the pages to one that was dog-eared; somewhere within the section of _noxious herbs._

“Well, I must admit, this sickness of yours _has_ got me thinking,” he started, eyes scanning the page. His index finger trailed the line he read and then, with some measure of dread, he continued. “I recall a classmate suffering a terrible cough. It was when I was an apprentice, you see, and we were studying rashvine.”

“Were you?” Lavellan hummed, head leaning back against the wall behind him. From his voice, he already sounded halfway asleep.

“It turned out, he’d heard from a friend of a friend that burning it could work as pain relief. Though, as I recall, all it did was calcify his lungs and kill him within a few months.” Lavellan’s eyes blinked open, still weary.

“That’s a terrible story.” He murmured.

“Isn’t it?” Dorian studied the page. The list of dosages and symptoms. He looked up to find Lavellan watching him, more awake and more ashamed. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Lavellan toyed weakly with his hands, sunken eyes studying the movement.

“...I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He muttered.

“Naturally.”

“Please, Dorian,” Lavellan implored, “please, just understand. I need you to understand.”

“Then _explain.”_ he hissed in reply, a bit harsher than he’d intended, given his fortnights’ worth of anxious worry and what little rest he’d gotten. Lavellan, wide-eyed, studied his face. Something like worry, or perhaps fear, flashed across his expression. The realization that perhaps the elf was in too deep came to Dorian’s mind.

“It’s the Anchor,” Lavellan whispered, “it hurts. I needed something for the pain.”

“Lavellan--” Dorian sighed, ready to suggest something-- _anything--_ that could’ve been an alternative. He was cut off before he could work up to something decent.

“Whatever you’re about to suggest, I’ve already tried it. Nothing works. Nothing can fix it and I’m running out of ideas.”

“How did you get here?” He asked in a harsh whisper, “who told you to try this?”

“It doesn’t _matter,_ Dorian.”

“Like _hell_ it matters!” He snapped the book shut in his lap and dropped it gracelessly on the floor. “I’ve watched you wither away for _weeks_ and you’re telling me _that_ doesn’t matter? Why do you always do this? Why do you _insist_ upon suffering alone?” Lavellan pursed his lips tight and stared down at his laced hands in stiff silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dorian asked next, breaking down to a softer tone. Something more desperate. Lavellan reached out, taking his hand with his unmarked one. “I could’ve helped.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone.” He murmured, “not yet. I needed to find something to make it bearable, just so I could keep going. We’re so _close,_ Dorian. I can feel it.”

“That won’t make a difference if you get yourself killed along the way.” Lavellan looked away, a pitiful frown crossing his lips. “Why didn’t you at least tell me what had caused it? It might’ve saved you a weeks’ worth of this sickness.”

“I just… I couldn’t.” He murmured.

“You just _couldn’t.”_ Dorian repeated, squeezing Lavellan’s hand in his. “Alright.”

“Dorian, _please.”_ Lavellan stressed, “I…” he trailed off, wishing for him to understand without needing to say anything. To explain himself, or the warped instinct he’d grown used to. The need to appease, and to cover up the bad. He realized just how useless it was: to work desperately to please others and ruining things in the process. But he couldn’t stop.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, “I don’t want to die.” Hot, sharp pain shot through his chest as his confession broke free. His eyes were burning, frustrated tears threatening to fall. Frustrated at himself, foremost, for being unable to break the mold that had first shaped him; that which told him his weakness was _wrong_ and vile. Frustrated at the gods, second, because he knew that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t look forward to being a martyr.

It meant the wicked, beaten-in part of him was making his sacrifice seem easier, and there was little _good_ he’d wanted from that indoctrination. That meant that perhaps it wasn’t entirely wrong. That perhaps he was all the things that had been spat at him and more. He warred with himself; knowing he deserved to live, but that he was specially chosen by some force outside himself, whatever the reason, and he needed to see it through. Be it fate or the Maker, he was on a new path now. His life and his future belonged to something else.

That wicked half insisted that he keep his chin up and lock away those icky fears: that he would never have the things he’d dreamed, or a place to call home. He would never chat with friendly neighbors as he passed by in the morning, them in the their wide-brimmed hats watering flowers upon their porch terrace. Wouldn't have time to watch the ocean from a balcony again. Would never be able to drink his way through festivals and stay up late at the tavern with old friends whose names he’d forgotten as soon as they were said. He’d never live in an apartment or in a cottage, grow old and fat, and be the only relic remaining of all that he'd seen. He’d never have children; a chance to love, and to prove that he was stronger than the hand which shaped him. Again, that darker voice whispered, _what would be the point of mourning a life you never had? Fearing that end?_

The Maker needed a martyr to fight and die for the people, and he would do it, without question. But going in blind didn’t stop him wanting anything and everything else. His life did not belong to him any longer but he couldn’t help yearning, selfishly, that it _could._

He pulled his hand from Dorian’s grasp and moved, clumsy and desperate, to turn himself away. He didn’t run, even though his heart ached to, but instead sat up and turned his back. He needed some small privacy. Dorian was still there, only a short distance away, but he couldn’t hold back.

Hot tears started to spill even despite his efforts to stop them. Then, they just wouldn’t stop. He clapped a hand over his mouth to mute the sobs wracking his chest. His other arm wrapped around himself and his lungs started to ache again. Following a weak sniffle was a coughing fit that wicked the energy from his body. He swayed dizzily in place, caught between the ache in his lungs and his heart and the uncomfortable disgust seated in his stomach. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just _stop?_

Gently, a hand laid on his shoulder. Then, another at his upper arm, steadying him. Dorian was there, at his side, just barely keeping him afloat. Lavellan couldn’t help but to turn his head away and hide his tears when he drew close.

“Please don’t hate me for this.” He requested in a hoarse whisper, giving into the comfort of his presence even though his gut continued to insist he hide. How would Dorian ever look at him the same way? Here he was, sobbing like a child over his own mistake, pleading foolishly. He'd dug himself into a stupid little hole out of fear and basest instinct. It was not the man or the Inquisitor he was supposed to be.

“Of course not.” Dorian replied huffily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His hand squeezed, firm, at Lavellan’s shoulder and the elf almost let out another embarrassing sob. “For better or for worse, I’m here. This hasn’t changed that.”

Lavellan scrubbed at his eyes and then turned, halfway to collapsing as he was wrapped up Dorian in his arms. The other man crumpled awkwardly but held onto him, regardless. He let out a weak laugh, something like a sob, into Dorian’s robes.

“I’m sorry.” He said, voice muffled by the fabric. His body was dense with exhaustion and it left him partway to being a dead weight in Dorian’s arms.

“I know.” Dorian replied, soothing one hand slowly over his hair. Before Lavellan could say any more, he was cut off, “I need to take a break.” Dorian said.

“A break?” Lavellan repeated, brows curling up in something like worry. He summoned some strength to lean back and see him more clearly. “From what? For how long?”

“Perhaps that's..." he trailed off. "I just need some time to think, that's all. Nothing serious. These past weeks have been a mite taxing.” Dorian pressed a kiss to his forehead and then slipped away, plucking up his book from the floor on the other side of the cot. Lavellan twisted to watch him with droopy, worried eyes. Something deep and hurtful in his gut told him that he’d blundered things, but he pushed it down as much as he could.

“Is there anything I can do?” Lavellan ventured weakly. Dorian paused as he stood, tucking the tome under one arm.

 _“No.”_ He said firmly, “stay here and rest. I’m going to see what can be done for your pain. Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone, would you?” Eyes downcast, Lavellan gave a small nod. Like a _child._

 _“Amatus,”_ Dorian addressed, his tone fit for scolding. He reached out a hand, lifting Lavellan's chin with one bump of his finger. “I’m going to fix this. You have my word.”

Lavellan nodded once again, mute, though now because his voice was choked more by earnest love than shame. He caught Dorian’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles before laying it, fingers outstretched, atop his chest. He held it there for a moment, eyes shut, the warmth grounding him between wheezed breaths. It was incredible, to be proven wrong again and again. To be shown, without remorse, that he had someone looking out for him who wasn't doing it conditionally. He would be alright, given time. They would be alright.

Lavellan released him and Dorian drew away, sparing him one last glance before stepping out of the tent. Lavellan kicked his feet up into the cot with some effort and then soothed himself down so his head could lay against the dense makeshift pillow. Shame and warmth mingled together in his chest, filling his rib cage with pins and needles. Dorian was to return, but Lavellan was already asleep.


	40. What Should Have Been, What Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan: i know elf things  
> Morrigan: no you dont  
> Abelas: no you dont  
> Solas, distantly: no you dont
> 
> (they are correct in this instance)

It was barely dawn by the time the party arrived at the fortification. Trebuchet shots thundered through the forest for miles, spurred on by the wind which parted the leaves in short gasps. Lavellan was stolen away to chat with Morrigan, leaving the rest of the party to fidget. Injured soldiers were being walked past the palisade, limping, in twos and threes. More still went out to take their place. Despite heavy losses, morale seemed as high as it could be in a war-torn jungle.

Lavellan left his half-earnest chat and started on the descent into the forest. There were layers of multicoloured foliage pressing in on all sides of the beaten path. In some places, roots or branches too thick to cut would cross the road and they had to climb around. Leaves as tall and wide as two grown men hung down from the canopy and, occasionally, could brush the tops of their heads. Tropical birds, matching in hue to the many blossoming flowers, zipped back and forth in the dense air above their heads. The foliage smothered the sound of war around them until they broke into a clearing.

Every battle closer to the temple left more and more of the forest an angry mess. Bushes burned at the edges of river mouths. Bodies lay face-down against the smoothed rocks, washed clean of their viscera that now moved downstream. In some places, trebuchet fire had left enormous, defined gouges in the landscape. Holes were punched straight through the trunks of thousand-year-old trees, leaving them to rot. In one spot along the path, the Earth had been cut, charting the course of one strike which rolled for a distance of nearly fifty strides along the ground. The boulder wedged itself deep into a rocky outface at the end of the crevasse it had created.

The party moved swiftly but carefully, maneuvering around the obstacles both natural and man-made. They made small detours wherever soldiers fought against Templars but Lavellan’s course was set. They needed to get to the temple before more damage could be done.

They had just cleared a Templar’s camp when, seemingly from nowhere, there was an assault by another party. These were different from the rest. The red Templars were rough; well-practiced strikes filled with too much strength and a certain  inhuman-ness to their movement. They would take a hit and barely stumble but each top-heavy strike of their blade was an opportunity to knock them off-balance.

These new enemies were swift and precise and used somewhat more unusual techniques. The warriors, similarly lithe in build, would disappear into stealth the same as rogues. They would pick on one person at a time, attacking from all sides at intermittent times.The first few fights were messy and uneven, using up too many potions, but the party grew accustomed with practice.

“Those were elves?” Blackwall asked between ragged breaths, sweating behind his helmet from both the growing heat of the forest and the precarious fight. He was becoming a regular target, moreso than the other party members.

“Evidently so. Perhaps they have to do with this temple.” Morrigan drawled, halfway to leading the group before the Inquisitor took up the role. She had hardly a feather or hair out of place.

“Let’s hope we can find a way to bargain with them.” Lavellan led the party to shuffle down a steep embankment at the edge of a shallow river. Grey Wardens and Templars alike laid in wait.

-

Lavellan was really going to do it. _Maker,_ he was going to go wading into a pool of magic water and just  _ hope  _ it wouldn’t do anything adverse. Lavellan would take risks; that was a given, but Dorian had hoped that their not-so-distant chat about  _ unnecessary risk  _ might’ve stayed in his mind just a little longer. Then maybe Dorian wouldn’t have to stand idle at the edge of the pool, praying to not watch Lavellan die in front of him.

He glanced at the witch standing between the edge of the well and the lineup of the party. Dorian wasn’t exactly  _ fond _ of her, but she would do fine! Let someone else wade into the magic mystery pool and suffer the consequences. Morrigan  _ wanted  _ the pool, even. Lavellan only used it out of determination to hoard all the power he could get, presumably, which he might not have minded had Lavellan not the uncanny ability to find near-death in every place they went.

Lavellan removed his sword and jacket and then stepped, tentative, into the water. Dorian was caught between the intrigue of such a strange artefact and the absolute dread of something going wrong. He watched closely until he couldn’t, in which case he watched just slightly up and to the left. Cassandra let out a gasp and his gaze snapped back to the pool in a hurry. Lavellan had completely disappeared.

It was almost like the air was caught, choking, in his throat. He scoured the edge of the pool from the distance, frozen in place but needing to see even the barest sign of life. He would come back, wouldn’t he? He always came back. Dorian fiddled with a clasp on his arm guard--if only for something to do--and waited. The water didn’t even stir. The temple fell eerily silent.

Sound suddenly returned with an enormous crash. The well raised at the centre, as if something the size of a carriage had been dropped into it. Unlike any splash or body of water, the well just kept going up. It seemed to leap; the water cascaded back down in a definite column at the exact middle of its basin. Where it would normally fill out the tiled pool, it disappeared from sight, leaving only Lavellan in its place. He wobbled on his feet and then fell prostrate along the ground.

“Syrillon!” He called, unthinking.  _ Maker, he’ll be the death of me,  _ Dorian thought to himself, already racing to the edge of the pool. Cassandra and Blackwall were only a stride behind. He fell into a crouch just at the perimeter, reaching out with his magic to feel just whether Lavellan was even  _ alive. _

To his relief, that seemed to be the case. Something about the elf felt  _ odd _ but, for once, he could settle for the bare minimum. That he somehow hadn’t been reduced to some sort of paste was near impossibility. Lavellan sat up with a start, shaking off whatever he’d just been into.

“Well, thank goodness,” Morrigan said, only a hint derisive, “so?” Lavellan pulled himself to his feet after a few tries, then walked uneasily to the edge of the pool. Cassandra held out his jacket. None of the party members traipsed into the tiled basin.

“It sure was  _ something.”  _ Lavellan replied vaguely, winded by what he'd seen as he replaced his blade and scabbard at his hip. He opened his mouth to clarify but a thundering at the other end of the expanse drew their collective attention.

The tall doors opened with the creak of a thousand years’ strain and then clattered, objecting, as they hit the wall on either side with the force used upon them. Corypheus himself strode through, like something out of an apocalyptic fresco, flanked by his soldiers. He seemed less intimidating at a distance, especially when watching from the winner’s side.

The eluvian flickered to life with a dull blue glow, radiating cool heat at their backs. Lavellan, summoning new strength, pushed himself to stand between the party and the oncoming storm.

“Eluvian, now!” He ordered. It was Morrigan who took up the point, leading the other three at a running start through the doorway to the Crossroads. Dorian was the last to go through, save for the Inquisitor at their flank.

The realm they entered seemed thick with silence. Like in a vacuum, the only sound was the party’s steps against the ground and their heaving breaths as they made their mad dash towards the Skyhold eluvian. Dorian lagged behind by a few steps, glancing over his shoulder and then eventually moving sideways to ensure Lavellan was still behind them.

Dorian took his eyes off him for only a moment, leaping through after Cassandra in the rushed single-file line. Each of them landed with a different measure of grace as they appeared within the cluttered storage room. Dorian stumbled a few steps and then turned, watching the eluvian with bated breath. Even a short jog could be rife with danger if Lavellan was the one doing it.

After an aeon’s wait, the Inquisitor fell through and the doorway closed behind him. Finally, Dorian could breathe again. The light of the eluvian faded. There was only the meager sunlight coming from one grubby window to define the shapes of the storage room. All those weeks and months spent preparing for the assault were over. The battle was won.

Blackwall moved to Lavellan’s side, hoisting him back onto steady feet. Lavellan put on a show (as expected), pretending he wasn’t getting too weak to stand. He pushed away and started a slow, ambling trek out of the storage room.

“Seems we’ve stumbled into a bit of a holiday,” Lavellan announced, brushing past the rest of the party, who were all still coming down from the adrenaline high. “I’ll send a raven. You all do… whatever.” He waved a limply dismissive hand and slipped out of the room.

Morrigan was saying something or other, but Dorian ignored it for favour of trailing after the Inquisitor. He stepped out into the walkway and there he was; wilting once more, though not so heavily as the last of his sickness some week prior. Lavellan had made it a few strides before pausing to lean himself on the stone wall.

“Let me help.” Dorian said, refusing any argument. Lavellan stood a tiny bit taller. He reached out and took Dorian’s upper arm, pulling down at the crook of his elbow for just a bit more guidance, then tried a few uneasy steps away from the wall. Dorian kept his arm up and moved with slow strides towards the stairs.

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan said, his other hand laying over top of Dorian’s arm, as well, though now it was less for support.

“Hm?”

“For the Well. I know you didn’t want me to do it.” Dorian let out a long, tired sigh. There it was again; that sort of thing that made him wonder just what the Maker was playing at. He was never  _ pleased  _ to watch Lavellan throw himself into danger--how could he be?--but he wouldn’t change it. It was a part of him; to give himself, wholeheartedly, for the benefit of others. Dorian could whine and complain all he liked, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he wasn’t the most important thing in Lavellan’s life. At least, this time round, he wasn't hiding what he'd done for the Inquisition's benefit.

“I’ve long since gotten used to you doing dangerous things for the greater good,” he replied, “I’ve even found a support network for it. It includes free drinks. I’m quite well-off.” Perhaps he was getting too jaded. Too used to the knowledge that no matter how earnest Lavellan was, there was little to no chance he’d stay around. Still, it made worry twist like a knife in his gut.

“Yes, that’s fantastic,” Lavellan murmured, leaning onto him a bit more. They paused in their movement, halfway up the flight of stairs. “I’m starting to get sick of apologizing. Not of being sorry, so you know. Just the apologizing.”

Dorian helped him to lean back against the railing and, a step below him, did the same. The sloping horizon was visible from where they stood, tinted orange with approaching dusk. Lavellan rubbed at his eyes with a tired grunt and, in the interim, Dorian gave him a small, tender once-over that the elf wasn’t privy to. He reached for Lavellan’s free hand.

“You know, there’s an easy fix for that.”

“Stop apologizing?” Lavellan scoffed, lolling his head down in a weak smile. Dorian gave a small, encouraging nod. Shaking his head, Lavellan looked to the sky with a squint. “Fair play on that. Really, that’s admirable.”

“And I suppose that’s a no.”

“Spot on.” Lavellan laid a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, tugging incessantly. “Will’ya come on, will’ya? Should find a place to lie down before I colonize one of these steps.”

“Yes, alright, hold on a moment.” Dorian chided, stepping up to his side and offering his arm once more. “You don’t have to apologize for every little thing, you know. You can try to be selfish once in a while, same as me.”  _ Someone more selfish might be easier to get over. _

“But it’s a part of my charm, don’t you think?”

“If you had any, certainly.” Lavellan let out a mildly offended sound.

“Play coy all you like, dove. I see you.” The elf gave him a small pat on the arm and a weakly teasing smile. His fingers squeezed a bit, more serious, and at a fork in their path Lavellan turned in the direction towards Dorian’s chambers.

“If you’re trying to take me to bed, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” Dorian said, still letting Lavellan amble along at his side. He took a weak push to the arm.

“If I tried to seduce you any more, I’d never get any of my paperwork finished.” Lavellan lamented, eyes catching on the palisades as they passed along. Coming across the thick wood door, Lavellan leaned himself onto the stone wall while Dorian wrestled with the latch. It took a bit of fiddling and then one hard shove to get the door open. Lavellan brushed past him to step inside, murmuring, “nothing works around here except me.”

The door soothed shut more easily, Lavellan already collapsing into a sit at the end of the bed by the time Dorian had turned around. The mage busied himself with shrugging off his robes. Lavellan was still swaddled in metal and leather armor, but he didn’t seem to notice this.

“...You called me by my name,” the elf spoke up after a silent second. “When I was in the Well.” Dorian’s hands paused at his belt, stuttering just a moment.

“I did, yes.” They resumed their movement, a bit slower. “Did that… bother you?” Mutely, Lavellan raised a hand and made a vague  _ kind-of-sort-of  _ gesture with a sideways wobble. His arm dropped back to his abdomen. Dorian let out a quiet  _ ah  _ and cast aside his belt.

“I’ll refrain, then.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

_ “Lavellan.”  _ Dorian said, warning.

“Well, fine, then. Do what you like.” The elf replied, flippant. “Not like I could stop you.” He shuffled to prop himself up by his elbows. Shaking his head, Dorian tossed a balled-up shirt towards Lavellan's head. It landed limply, high on his armored chest.

“If you’re going to take over my chambers, you need to at least comply with the dress code.” He instructed. Lavellan sank, bogged down by the weight of consciousness. He had improved a great deal over the past few days, but his weakness was growing more apparent the longer he was awake. Dorian turned his back, facing his dresser to hide a frown.

The rashvine had left its mark, and  _ that, _ aside from being an on-and-off source of contention,  was a reminder that he still hadn’t found anything to soothe the anchor. That lingering upset wasn’t something he should dwell on for the moment. Still, he wished their time together could feel more relaxed; as if there wasn’t the looming shadow of doubt over their every minute. As if one or the other of them was always running out of time.

Fitfully, he kicked off his boots. It would be so much  _ easier  _ to ignore that inevitable end. But there was always a reminder; it could be the tiredness in Lavellan’s stance or the winces he was still trying to hide. Even in the way they touched--how he favoured his right hand more than his left--there was no escaping it. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Lavellan was specially crafted as a tool to break his heart.

“I like it here.” Lavellan spoke up from behind him. He was standing now, albeit a bit precariously, and pieces of his armor were stacked in a pile not far from his reach. He was down to his half-equipped chestplate, which his clumsier fingers were working to remove. Dorian wandered back to him and slapped those hands away to do the work in their stead.

“Warm,” the elf continued, “but I mean… cozy. The tapestries that do it, I think. Makes the room smaller. In a good way. Feels like home, though not mine.”

“Mm. Very concise, dear.”

“Am a master wordsmith.” Lavellan slipped, a bit awkwardly, out of the bronze-tinted chestplate, given some assistance. Once free, he got to work on the easier job of changing shirts to the less-soiled one he was borrowing.

Lavellan would need to get back to work eventually, perhaps, but for now, they had time. Dorian was too far gone to reel himself back in from this relationship, he knew; all his little defenses he’d grown were only able to fend off attachment, rather than end it. So he would covet every little moment and treat it as if it was the last, as it might very well be.

They sank into the covers and Dorian wound his arms around the elf, pulling him in close as if a phantom wind would knock him from his grasp. Lavellan would be called away--in minutes or hours--but in the interim, Dorian could live in this fantasy of permanence a while longer. Lavellan fell into sleep quickly enough and Dorian was content to stay there, watching over him, enjoying what little time they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise coming friday (hehe)


	41. SMUT: Change Rides on the Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexytime V2 Baby!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend this is a Friday update but also a special 2 month bonus...... I can have it both ways, right?? Anyway, I'm impatient. Enjoy!

Lavellan took the saucer and teacup in one careful hand, pulling it in with a nod of thanks. He raised the steaming cup, daintily, in mock toast.

“Don’t do that, darling,” Vivienne reminded quietly, lifting her tea directly to her tinted lips. Lavellan restrained a childish smile and hid it behind a sip of the scalding hot drink. The taste of lavender burned into his lips and tongue.

“So,” he started, conversational, “any idea where you’re headed once the Inquisition wraps up?” He laid the cup back onto the speckled robin’s egg saucer, then placed the matching set onto the tall table beside his divan.

“A lady doesn’t  _ head,  _ my dear. She plans her every move so she might descend in exactly the manner that is required of her.” Vivienne explained, haughty but vague. Still, she seemed in a good mood. She might’ve even been joking; Lavellan couldn’t tell.

“Right. Where are you going to be doing all that, then?”

“It all depends on the decisions to come; what you do with the power that’s been handed to you. If all goes well, I will be endeavoring to work with Her Radiance. Helping make sense of what’s left of the Circles.” She crossed one careful leg over the other, cup and saucer still held carefully in her manicured grasp.

“So you’re set on leaving.” Lavellan assumed, leaning one arm along the sloping back of the divan.

“Most likely, yes. Again, that assumes that you  _ don’t  _ allow the worst to happen.”

“Right. No pressure, then.” Lavellan frowned to himself, fidgeting idly with a clasp high up on his trousers. In his periphery, he could see Vivienne tilt her head.

“Come now, darling, I’m entirely confident in your abilities. I have hardly a speck of doubt.” A slight, tense sigh passed Lavellan’s lips and he spared her a passing glance.

“That’s not it,” she looked him over, askance, as he shifted in his seat. His brow creased with his sudden distress. “I’m just reminded that this is all… temporary.” He folded his hands over his knee, worrying his lower lip in his teeth.

“All things are, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can take the time to yourself; enjoy the more civilized comforts afforded to you. There is an  _ excellent  _ spa at the Winter Palace. I could set up a reservation for you, should you need it.”

“Thank you, Madame Vivienne, but I’d rather not. If anything, a break from Orlais and Fereldan is what I need.” She let out a hum and took another tiny sip of her tea.

“Very well. Will you be visiting family?” He flashed a tight smile.

“Maybe.” He replied. Dying a martyr would be easier.

“And our favourite Tevinter mage?” The tiniest smile crossed her glossy lips, spurred on by the delight of idle gossip.

“Careful,” Lavellan warned, standing from his seat, ready to flee the uncomfortable truth she'd opened up, “your Orlesian is showing.” He plucked up the teacup from his saucer and held it with the tips of his long fingers. He gave her an overzealous bow.

“Thank you for the tea, Madame Vivienne.” She gave a pointedly mute nod in reply. He straightened up, pushing down another childish grin at the way she looked him over: unimpressed by his pomp. He gave her a small wave with his free hand and then descended from the enchanter’s open study to enter the library.

The entire rotunda was still dense with dust even now, months after moving into the old castle. The smell of ink and wax clung to everything, and it was a scent Lavellan had grown quite fond of, given his frequent visits. Candle ash, old parchment and whatever Dorian used to style his hair; that was the smell. It was calming, almost.

Lavellan could see the mage working away at his desk in the alcove across from where he stepped into the library. He set aside his tea in some place or another. Then, quietly, he moved around scouts and library loiterers to make his approach. He flashed a few polite smiles to make up for the odd, nefarious-looking way he crept forward. A boyish grin already on his lips, Lavellan snuck the last few strides in quick succession. He clapped his hands onto Dorian’s shoulders from behind.

“So!” He said, earning a startled jump and a hissed  _ “kaffas!”  _ that made him cackle horribly. “What’re you working on, young man?” Dorian, clutching his chest, twisted in his seat to glower in Lavellan’s direction. He had dropped his pen and made a splatter of ink on the page he was editing.

“Oh, you stop smiling!” Dorian hissed, smacking away Lavellan’s hands, to the utter delight of the latter man. “You’re absolutely incorrigible.”

“Ah,” Lavellan sighed, making a show of wiping an invisible tear, “it’s good to be Inquisitor.” Dorian gave him a flippant wave and turned back, huffily, to his parchment. Lavellan leaned onto the armrests, peering over the mage’s head. He couldn’t make out many of the written words, between their length and the fancy-looking handwriting.

“No, really, what are you working on?” Lavellan asked, squinting. Con-something? Huh. He leaned forward until he was nearly on his toes. Dorian leaned back, patting his shoulder with one hand and making him move away.

“It’s about the oculara,” he replied, “Grim business.” Moving around behind him, Lavellan let out a hum of agreement, smile now forgotten. He pulled out a chair at another side of the work desk and sat himself down.

“And the Tranquil? Know anything about them? If they’re being looked after, I mean.” Dorian shook his head. Lavellan wrapped himself up in a loose hug and studied the wood grain with a tiny frown.

“Perhaps this isn’t the time, but I wanted to speak to you about something.” Dorian said, drawing Lavellan’s attention. He was leaning one elbow on the table and the other arm was slung over the back of his seat.

“No, it’s alright. Go ahead.” Lavellan invited, crossing one leg over the other. Anything would be better than traipsing into that too-macabre school of thought. Dorian nodded tentatively and then paused a moment, choosing his words.

“I wanted you to know that I’ll be returning to Tevinter. Eventually, anyway. When this business with Corypheus is settled.” Lavellan’s lips parted in a mute  _ ah  _ and he sank a bit lower in his seat.

“Sounds like a popular idea.” He muttered, flashing an uneasy smile and fiddling with his hands in his lap. He could hear Dorian letting out a tight sigh. Then, gently, his hand laid atop Lavellan’s, giving them pause. He weaseled his way in to intertwine fingers with one of them, which he stole away with.

“It brings me no great joy to leave your side, amatus, believe me.” Dorian insisted, his voice lower. Lavellan looked up at him, at once feeling childishly needy. “But this is important to me. I need to make change, in just the way I’ve been rambling on about. No one else will do it.” Lavellan squeezed his hand back.

It was like being stabbed. Slowly, softly, it was like being gutted. Why couldn’t things be simple? Why couldn’t the Imperium sort itself out, no work needed? Why couldn’t the world save _itself_ for once without leaving Lavellan to rot? Why couldn’t they both be happy, with all the things they’d both endured?

Still, he smiled for him. Dorian had been a steadfast friend and the best partner he could’ve asked for. He would bear it, even if it frightened him, if only to pay back a small kindness. This was what Dorian needed and he would be damned if he was the reason he couldn’t have it. He nodded, swallowing dryly, and smiled a little brighter.

“I’m rubbing off on you.” He said, letting out a soft laugh.

“Yes, well, that’s a given.” Dorian pulled his hand into his lap and, with the pad of his thumb, traced the shapes beneath his skin. Veins, tendons and knuckles and the long, thin line of his fingers. Lavellan watched him, head tilted to one side, and enjoyed the view. If they were to part, he would be cherishing every sight he was privy to. Every single one.

-

Distracting guilt had started to hang over Dorian like an angry storm cloud. A moment spent working would be filled with abstraction:  _ I wonder what Lavellan’s doing,  _ or,  _ I wonder where he is,  _ or,  _ I wonder if I could find him.  _ It was a saving grace when he finally hit a wall with his assigned research. It gave him an excuse for a break, and with that break, he could attend to all these meddlesome thoughts. He wasn’t getting much work done, given his distraction, but then, he never did much anyway.

This would be him attending to the Inquisitor’s needs. Yes, that was it. If anyone asked, he was doing a service for their greater good. Better than sitting in his alcove and pretending to read whatever humdrum kindling Leliana had passed along to him for poring over. No, this was _far_ more productive. Not only did it make him feel less like he was squandering what little time he could spend with Lavellan, he would  _ also  _ be doing a very important job. One that no-one else could do! Really, he should get a pay raise.

He had stopped by his chambers to remove many of his embellishments. Fun though it was to be undressed, that wasn’t entirely his aim, this time around. He shrugged on a too-big jacket Lavellan had left behind at some time or another and then headed, under meager cover of dusk, to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Lavellan, as expected, was still working. Dorian was sorely tempted to startle him; he hadn’t even noticed his creaky steps up to the bedroom. But he was looking haggard under the candlelight and it felt too cruel to get back at him. Yet. Instead, he knocked on the stone balustrade next to the stairwell and then cleared his throat to draw the elf’s attention. Lavellan's head snapped up and, as Dorian had grown accustomed, he watched his expression shift to a smile as soon as he’d been recognized.

“What can I do for you?” Lavellan asked, setting down his pen. Dorian, wandering a few steps, played coy.

“I just came for a visit. I thought perhaps I could distract you from all that paperwork you’re so diligently trying to finish.” Lavellan let out a long hum of understanding and pushed out his chair. He stepped over the dog laid out next to his desk, who had hardly stirred.

“Unthinkably cruel. What’ll I ever do with you?” The elf lamented, slipping his hands into his pockets. He was in only a wrapped tunic and trousers, which, thankfully, would make Dorian’s debauched seduction much easier. He gave a vague shrug and looked up and away in as innocent a show as he could manage. It earned a laugh in the midst of that swaggered approach.

“Isn’t that my jacket?” Lavellan asked, a few steps closer. He pinched the hem of it and studied the fabric. It was too big for Dorian-- too big for either of them--likely something gifted in error by a noble who only knew the Inquisitor was  _ not-human;  _ apparently under the assumption that  _ not-human  _ meant qunari.

“Indeed it is. Would you like it back?” Dorian asked, edging on  _ plucky.  _ Lavellan shook his head and gave him a look of appraisal.

“That’s alright. I like how you look in it; very dashing. It brings out those eyes of yours.” Dorian let out an overplayed scoff and gave Lavellan’s shoulder a limp shove.

“Stop it, you. I’m  _ trying _ to get you to undress me.” The elf let out a delighted laugh and gestured with a grabby hand for him to step in closer.

“My mistake. So sorry.” He hummed, splaying his hands atop Dorian’s chest. They spread out in either direction, pushing the jacket off his shoulders and soothing it down to bundle low on his arms. Dorian let it drop off in a heap. “What’s this for, if I might ask? Is it my birthday?”

“I can’t just surprise you?” Dorian argued, still beaming. Lavellan’s hand slid under his shirt, hot against his skin. He dragged his dull nails up along his abdomen, carding through the scattering of hairs Dorian had allowed to grow out. The attention felt absolutely  _ divine,  _ making him catch his lip in his teeth,  but he was starting to get side-tracked.

_ “You  _ can’t, no,” Lavellan replied in a laugh, his hand slipping back down. Two long fingers slid under the hem of Dorian’s trousers, tugging, and he earned a tight hiss of breath. “You’ve always got ulterior motives. Really, you’re so shifty.”

“I’m not--shifty.” Dorian managed, stuttering for only a moment as Lavellan’s other hand slid over his bare arm, fingers pressing into his skin as they trailed the curve of his bicep. “I’m  _ pedantic.”  _ He corrected.

“That too, yeah,” Lavellan hummed, flippant. He moved back a step, pulling the mage along by the hem of his trousers. Not allowing himself to fall into that familiar place--where Lavellan was the one to lead--Dorian lifted his hands. He gave a little push to the elf’s chest, parting them as he fell back against the bed. Lavellan bounced a bit, still beaming, and laid in wait with arms splayed out; he looked pleased enough with the change of pace.

It was within moments that Dorian, casting his shirt aside carelessly, straddled his hips and got to work running wanton hands over his chest. They unwrapped Lavellan’s tunic a bit forcefully, more focused on getting it off than using any measure of finesse. He dipped down, giving into Lavellan’s needy tugging, and they met in a rushed, open-mouthed kiss. Clumsily, Lavellan propped himself up, and Dorian raised his hips so he could shuffle back farther onto the bed.

The mage crawled forth on hands and knees, breaths coming in gasps, and sat himself between Lavellan’s thighs. They met once more, each kiss more breathless than the last. The elf worked to undress quite enthusiastically, because Dorian had to lean back so that trousers could be cast aside. Two long legs wrapped around the mage’s hips and he was being pulled into a lazy grind with too much clothing to it. Lavellan’s hands on his cheeks kept him close, but still he worked blindly to undo the clasp to his own trousers. His fingers stumbled in their movement, rushed and desperate.

Finally, mercifully, the clasp gave way and Dorian struggled them down to his knees, where he could kick them off. Pulled into another grind, a mix of perverse sounds passed between their lips. Through the fugue of lust, Dorian fought to keep on track. He found where Lavellan’s hands wandered, groping, and redirected them to the bed sheets above his head. He kept them there with little force--so it would be easy enough to break free--but it wasn’t needed. They remained obediently in place even as his legs tugged once more, asking insistently for some small friction to get by.

Lavellan’s head pressed back into the covers and his eyes squeezed shut with another roll of their hips. Privy to the show of expressions that came with each new twitch, Dorian was reminded of just _why_ he thought this would be a good idea. Between drawn-out sounds, the elf swallowed, throat dry, and took in a few gasps of breath. The bob of his adam’s apple and the growing flush in his skin were mesmerizing. When Dorian dipped down to suck little marks into the expanse of skin, the sounds he earned were like payment. He felt each one reverberate through the too-hot flesh beneath him and he had to resist the urge to run his teeth across his chest just as an experiment. For now, at least, he’d put it off.

His hands slid low over Lavellan’s skin, then stopped at his hips, where his fingers pressed in. His lips moved lower, and, in passing, he licked a stripe along one of the tattoos that made a cross-section of his ribs. The groan that followed was absolutely  _ delicious  _ and he was desperate to hear another. He followed the trail of another tattoo in the same fashion, pausing just before the hem of Lavellan’s smalls. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to each little scar and freckle he could find, then soothed a few over the slopes of his hip bones. Small, barely-there stretch marks made his skin perfectly uneven beneath his tongue.

Hot breath fanned out against the thin, smooth skin of Lavellan’s pelvis. Dorian slid his splayed hands over Lavellan's thighs, pulling the edges of his smallclothes with them. It tugged at the defined bulge, which was still twitching up beneath the thin fabric. It pressed eagerly against the soft material, and, experimentally, Dorian pressed the flat of his tongue to the head. He earned a weak whine, so he persisted. He toyed with it, giving little, teasing flicks. A groan turned into a desperate-sounding laugh and, glancing up from his position, he could see Lavellan gripping the sheets tight in his fists.

“Maker, Dorian--” he choked, “--is this payback?”

“Perhaps.” He drawled in reply, pressing a chaste kiss through the fabric before he pulled away, finally pulling the article down past the elf’s thighs.  _ “Perhaps  _ I’m still bitter about you sneaking up on me.” One hand wrapped around his cock, Dorian dipped down, pressing a kiss to where the base of it met his groin.

He nipped at the thin skin and Lavellan’s snark was cut off with an abrupt yelp and a jolt. His lips moved a bit closer to the length--which felt shockingly hot in his grasp--and he could feel the tension. Where Lavellan might’ve expected another small bite to the  _ far  _ more sensitive skin, he only laid a tiny kiss.

“I should do it more often, then,” Lavellan choked out, hips lifting an almost imperceptible amount.

“If that means you’ll visit me each day, I wholeheartedly agree.” One hand lazily stroked while his other, exploring gleefully, ghosted along the skin between Lavellan's thighs. His thumb rubbed the base of the head to assuage some of the elf’s impatience, placating him with a drawn-out, desperate sound. Dorian’s hands both slid down, trailing along Lavellan’s legs, leaving him to squirm for some kind of stimulus.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Lavellan hissed, sounding a bit more restless. Dorian shuffled back, lifting one leg over his shoulder to pepper little kisses along the skin. There was an odd-shaped scar; something like a rune cut into the flesh, overlapping what looked like an old bite mark. He traced it with the pad of a finger, thoughtful, before pressing a kiss to it as well.

_ “Fenedhis,”  _ the elf grumbled, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He looked almost like he was losing his mind, but Dorian wasn’t  _ quite  _ done yet.

“Ah, ah,” he chided, “put those hands away.” Lavellan dropped them, face wound into a flushed and tortured frown. He went back to trailing kisses, and the occasional bite, to all the skin laid out before him. Once he drew high enough on Lavellan’s legs, little red marks left in his wake, his hand returned to stroking him. It begat a sound somewhat like a sigh of relief.

His lips found the curve of Lavellan’s stomach and he took a moment to marvel at the warmth of him. Now that he wasn’t writhing with neglect, Lavellan watched him, eyes a bit wide and lips parted softly. Good. It would do to have an audience.

Moving slow, Dorian kept his eyes on him as his lips brushed, barely touching, towards his ribs. Lavellan shivered beneath him with a weak groan.  Dorian straddled one of his legs, left hand still moving in leisurely tugs, while his other plucked up Lavellan’s from where it wound into the sheets. Cradling the marked hand in his, he pressed a kiss to the palm.

With every little piece of affection he gave, he urged him to understand. A kiss to his pulse, eyes still on him, said:  _ don't leave me yet.  _ Following the green-blue line of his veins and all the tiny scars cut into the skin, he pressed another to his inner arm. Then the crook of his elbow.  _ I need you,  _ and,  _ I love you. _

He left kisses along his upper arm, where those little scars had started to trespass, and then to where the bump of his collarbone met his shoulder. He laid one upon the column of Lavellan’s throat before drawing back, caught under the elf’s meekly startled gaze and suddenly feeling a mite self-conscious. Moving on his knees, he straddled Lavellan’s other leg and switched hands.

He brought the rough pad of each finger to his lips. He’d never expressed such honest care to someone, so it was with some abrupt surprise that he realized he didn’t know what he was doing. But it felt right to pepper kisses down to his palm. It felt right to let Lavellan take over, if only by an inch, and cup his cheek. His burning hot touch slid down to his neck, and then his shoulder, where the fingers dug into his cooler skin. Dorian’s other hand came up, thumb rolling over the head of his cock after a long moment spent barely moving, and the sound Lavellan made was partly startled. It felt  _ right.  _

The elf lifted his hips, asking for more, and Dorian found he couldn’t resist. A hand slid up the back of his neck to card through his hair and then, needily, he was being tugged in for another kiss. It was languid and perhaps a bit too clumsy but he didn’t want anything else. Another swipe of his thumb released a higher keen and then Lavellan’s grip tightened in his hair.

_ “Dorian,”  _ he groaned, and it went straight to his groin. Another few strokes and Lavellan’s hips were bucking up impatiently. He finished, letting out a sound that was long and low and swallowed by another kiss. Lavellan melted, spent, into the bedsheets. Dorian kicked up his other leg so he might straddle him fully, dipping down to leave a few speckled marks along his jawline. The elf wrapped heavy, lazy arms around his midsection and allowed him to do what he liked.

“Are you sure this isn’t a special occasion?” Lavellan drawled, eyes drooping closed beneath the weight of the mage and the warmth of his climax. His words were swallowed up first by his exhaustion and second by his lilt, which only grew stronger from the former.

“Who am I to say?” Dorian replied, pulling away just to get a look at his peacefully flushed face. Lavellan let out a lazy laugh while his arms unfurled, one hand coming around to slip beneath the hem of the mage’s smallclothes. He cupped the warm erection in one hand, reveling in the small victory of a weak groan.

“Well, whatever this is,” Lavellan murmured, eyes blinking open, “I’d hate for you to feel left out.”


	42. Lavellan, an End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart at chapter 42.... coincidence????
> 
> yes
> 
> TW: mentions of past abuse and some generally unhealthy coping mechanisms

Lavellan flipped through the sheets of parchment in his grasp, brow knit tight. He removed one, two, then three of them from his collection and handed them off to the awaiting scout. They scurried away with not so much as a goodbye and he was left, pointless, with a handful of requisitions. He looked around the courtyard.

Bedrolls and blankets littered the ground in every place except for the walking paths in each direction. Refugees cooked their own food and warmed themselves over tiny fires, careful to not put too great a strain on their kitchens, should it be yet another reason for their welcome to run out. Lavellan wandered to one nearby fire, holding out his fingers to chase away the dawn chill. The blanket-swaddled refugee who stoked it looked up, startled, and shuffled away to give him room. Lavellan offered a small, awkward smile, as if to say: _now, now, there’s no need._

“An awful chill today, yeah?” He chimed, rubbing his palms. They nodded meekly, pulling away their grubby, bare feet from the fire’s warmth with their meager retreat. “You let Josephine--you know Josephine? The diplomat?--you let her know if you need more blankets. I’m sure I’ve got some to spare.” He flashed another small smile.

“Inquisitor!” Someone called. Lavellan whirled around to face it, a bit lost between faces in the ambling, early morning crowd. Between passers-by, he spotted Cassandra, who was waving for him. He slipped between people to make his approach.

“Good morning, lethallan,” he greeted, “what can I do for you?” She raised a dull training sword.

“I wanted to invite you to spar with me.” He went to reply just as another party interrupted.

“Now, what’s this?” Came a familiar drawl. It was the same as Lavellan’s, though it was stronger, and the tone was deeper. Startled, he looked to his side, where a young man stood adrift in the sparse crowd of passing refugees. He was bundled up in a well-worn silken cloak, his dark hair falling in messy tufts around pointed ears. He wore a smile that gleamed, warping his vallaslin.

“Yevan?” He verified. The elf threw out his arms, demanding an embrace. Lavellan let out a surprised laugh and strode forth, ready to appease him. Suddenly, a hand came up, and he was stopped.

“Now, hold on just a moment,” Yevan drawled, “what’s all this about?” He groped a bit roughly at Lavellan’s upper arm, pinching the muscle. “You look like you ate an orphanage, you fuckin' boar. You _look_ like an orphanage. A hundred little boys stacked on top each other's shoulders, meddlin' away. Who said you could do that?” He ribbed.

“Fuck _off,”_ Syrillon grumbled, slapping the hand away. “It’s been a decade and that's the best you came up with? _Boo._ I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, honestly.” Though he didn’t notice, his lilt started to grow stronger.

“Perhaps we can spar another time.” Cassandra said, calling back attention. Lavellan clapped a hand on the other elf’s shoulder and turned towards her, beaming.

“Maybe that’s best. We leave him alone and this boy’ll burn the place down.” He earned himself a smack to the ribs. Yevan flashed the Seeker a warm grin, bringing out the creases in his cheeks and eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you, vhenan. Yevan, Keeper to Clan Lavellan.” He gave a short bow. Syrillon’s brows raised, looking ready to say something, but he was quickly silenced. “This rabble-rouser is my baby brother.”

“Of course. Pleased to meet you.” She replied, amusement creasing her brow.

“I’m not a _baby_ brother,” Syrillon corrected, lukewarm, “he’s _months_ older than me. Barely. It’s an important distinction.” Cassandra gave a slow, derisive nod. Yevan tugged at his arm.

“I’m sure this lovely woman would like to hear about your _complex_ some other time. Could I’ve a word?” He requested. The Inquisitor looked between them, turning towards the forge building a few paces away. He offered Cassandra a wave goodbye. Yevan was quick and enthusiastic in doing the same.

As soon as they were entirely alone, Yevan meandered towards the solitary table. The wood slat floor on the second level creaked with every step. The elf turned his back to the surface, half-leaning and half-sitting.

“So,” he started, “you’re an _Inquisitor._ Interesting.” Syrillon let out a weak laugh.

“You heard that, then?” A nod. “And you’re the Keeper. Seems we’re both moving up in the world.” It was a bit lighthearted when he said it, but the tight, mirthless smile Yevan flashed stole away some of that ease.

“Right. About that.” He murmured, taking in a breath. “Father’s dead. Mother, too.” Syrillon froze. There was a moment where he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but Yevan was suitably grim-faced.

“How?” He breathed. _That explains the wretched haircut,_ he might've said, if he could form the jab. If it wouldn't choke him to say.

“That’s what _I_ came here to ask.” Yevan replied, hands dangling between armored thighs. He picked at the skin of his thumb until it started to bleed. “Bandits, or something like it. They came down on us hard. Barely half the clan made it out alive.”

“Valaril?”

“She’s fine. Riding in with the rest of them, it’ll be a couple days.” So they would be coming to Skyhold. It was with a grim twist in his gut that Lavellan realized he might have to turn some of his own clan away. Where would there be room?

“So… what? You think it’s bandits? Why?” Syrillon leaned against the railing at his back, parallel to his brother.

“Didn’t say _I_ thought that’s what they were. I heard them talking, y’see. Said something about an _Inquisitor.”_

“No.” Syrillon said, shaking his head. “If this was connected to me, there’s no way you wouldn’t’ve seen them coming. Why didn’t you write me?”

“I _did.”_ Yevan hissed, fingers digging into the underside of the table, knuckles white with his grip. “You never replied. You never _did_ anything.”

“Are you saying this is _my_ fault?”

“Yes-- _no--_ fuck!” Yevan said, cutting himself off with a whispered curse. He ran a forceful hand through his hair, face wound up in a wince of a frown. “I saw it coming for weeks. Everyone did. I tried to tell mother that we should get you to help us; send some soldiers, or something. But she said no; said she didn’t want shem stepping in our business. You know how she is.” Syrillon ran a hand over his face, pinching the tall bridge of his nose.

“You think she tried to keep me away?” He ventured.

“I don’t know.” Yevan replied tightly, “did she?” Syrillon’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Don’t pretend like I wanted this anymore than you would! You _know_ I wouldn’t let something bad happen on purpose. It’s my home, too.” His voice died out to something weaker.

“How do I know you haven’t changed?” Yevan whispered harshly, “how do I know? Your vallaslin are gone, Syrillon. Poof, vanished. You expect me to pretend you _haven't_ changed? You’ve been away for so long. Do you even _remember?”_

“Yevan,” he sighed, “please.”

“No.” Yevan spat through tight teeth, jaw clenching. “You know what’s the last thing I saw? Mother and father. The both of them, dying, still holding hands.” His voice wavered and then he was fighting through glassy eyes. “They haven’t had _anything_ to do with eachother for _years._ Since you left.” Syrillon stepped away from the banister and took a few short steps closer.

“It’s so _fucked,”_ Yevan hissed, taking in one hard sniffle and choking back a sob, _“Fenedhis,_ can’t we get a fucking _break?_ Hunting’s been shit and we’re losing people every year. Now I’ve buried more people in my _weeks_ of being Keeper than father did in his forty years, even with this run of bad luck.” He wrestled off a glove to rub fitfully at his runny nose. “It’s like the gods are laughing at us.” He said, smiling bitterly.

Syrillon closed the distance, wrapping him up in his arms and resting his chin on the crown of his brother's head. Yevan sat there, not returning the gesture, but not moving away. His shoulders shook with a few more violent sobs. Syrillon’s fingers wound into the worn silk of his brother’s cloak. He forced down the tight lump in his throat.

“Mother’d hate this, wouldn’t she?” He murmured aloud. Yevan’s shoulders shook with a laugh that only made him cry harder.

“She would,” he replied, voice muffled against Syrillon’s shoulder. “Great fuckin’ job, us whining in her memory. I bet she’s spitting, wherever she is.” Yevan rattled, drawing back to rub at his red eyes. He sniffled weakly. Syrillon clapped a hand on his pauldron from atop his cloak.

"I'm still your li'l bastard of a brother, yeah?" He encouraged, laughing weakly. "That's not changed."

"Thank fuck for that, anyway."

-

The procession ambled slowly back to the gates. Syrillon rode at the front, squeezing his reins intermittently as his nausea came and went. The ground changed underfoot to softer earth and the horse led itself towards the stables. The rickety wood building drew closer. Then, the horse stopped. One of the stable boys came to take the reins and he paused, mute, for a moment. It took a minute for him to finally dismount.

There was only one encampment from his clan within the fortress walls. There was a burned-out campfire just a few strides from the stables, with tents erected from whatever material could be found lining the small area. A number of members from the funeral procession came trailing down towards the stables to return to their temporary homes. Too-small tents, meant to house two people, would be stuffed with upwards of six come evening.

The covered two-horse wagon that had marked the end of the procession pulled up beside him. Syrillon was quick to move to its side and offer a hand to his fellows riding within. A number of children hopped out from under the leather cloth-covering with his help and went running off towards the tents, chattering gleefully in elvish. He stepped up onto the lip, leaning over the hinged door at the back of the wagon.

Left behind was one young woman; a silk sheet draped over her arms, threads halfway undone. It had been a robe, once upon a time, before loss had whittled it down. In her hands were three sticks; held together with a thousand loops of the silk, pointed in opposite directions so it could stand on its own once set down.

“The march is over, you know,” Syrillon reminded. The young woman glanced up from her toil, where she still endeavored to wrap silken thread around the twigs to cover up their smooth bark. A small smile crossed her lips, though it was faded.

“One of the little ones asked for an idol to play with,” she replied, fingers still moving. “He told me it reminded him of his mother. One of the ones we…” she trailed off, pursing her lips. “...I couldn’t tell him no.” His smile was a formality and it ached.

“You’re unbearably decent,” he accused, “save your favourite robe for the dead. Children can play with rocks and have a grand time.”

“Perhaps _you_ can.” She gathered the silk carefully in one arm and stood as gracefully as she could manage, hoisting the hem of her robe to keep it from catching on any worn wood or nails. Syrillon opened up the small half-door and then hopped down, holding out a hand for her to descend by.

They stood together and paused, smiles dying out. Then, given a moment, she wound her free arm around him and pulled him into a hug. He complied.

“It doesn’t feel real, does it?” She murmured against his collar.

“It still isn’t, to me.” Syrillon replied. She drew away, ghosting a gentle hand at his cheek. Her smile was pitying, but still kind.

“Take a break, da’sa. You need it. Your people might not see it, but _I_ do. You look like you’re wilting.”

“That’s a bit rude.” He muttered, leaning into the hand with a sigh. Her laugh was feather-light and it barely reached him.

“That’s the truth.” The children in the camp raced between barely-there gaps separating tents, laughing all the while. More and more came down from the gates to return to the camp, filling up what little space they had, between the other refugees and the soldiers. Guilt started to press in on him. Was there anything he could do for them that he hadn’t realized? There had to be _something._ He took her hand in his, then pressed his other atop it. He gave her a frank look, eyes flitting between hers.

“I’ll see what I can do to make more room. The chambers they gave me are too large, you won’t believe it.” She shook her head, still with that peculiarly amused smile.

“Did you not understand me?” She chided. “I _just_ said--”

“--To take a break. Yes, I know. I’ll do it later.” She let out a sigh that turned into another tired laugh. Slipping her hand from his grasp, she gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. She looked at him, tender, as if she could see straight through to him. Perhaps she could.

“Just when did you grow up?” She asked in a murmur. “I remember when you nearly drowned trying to catch fish that one year. You cried all night next to me. Do you remember?”

“Unfortunately. Yevan wouldn’t stop teasing me about it.” Her smile was a little brighter. More real.

“You’re not like that anymore. It’s strange to see.”

“Well, have _I_ got news for you,” he chuckled, placing a hand at her shoulder, “you’ve just not been around long enough. I’m sure I’ll embarrass myself yet.” He led her towards the feeble camp, to where a place had been cleared at the base of the well for sitting and sleeping. They parted and she sank down, sitting daintily upon one of the worn blankets.

“Either way,” she replied, looking up at him, “I wish I could've seen you under better circumstances. I’m happy to see you at all, though, given this title of yours. Yevan has been missing you, too, you know. Whether he says so or not. You’re both so rude to each other; I don’t know how you say that sort of thing.” Syrillon gave a vague shrug.

“We don’t. It’s implied.” She drawled a long _mm-hmm,_ sending him off with a dismissive wave. For a moment, it felt the way it had, all those years ago. When he was unburdened (relatively), and they could tease each other without anything weighing upon their words. There had been no greater duties calling them back then. No responsibility to something greater than themselves, nor a world-worn jading to their tone. It had been easier.

Now, he was being sent more stares than usual. His walk up to the main hall was populated with poorly-hidden looks of concern, namely by allies who had wished him well in passing and not known what to do afterwards. Soldiers sat in twos and threes, playing card games as they sat along overlooks and atop makeshift furniture. They would pause their game to watch their Inquisitor pass, giving a nod of _sorry for your loss_ when they were caught. Others would hide their eyes until they could watch him go. It was the basest sympathy. Better than nothing, he supposed; but then, it would be hard to ignore the fleet of elven refugees that came with his tragedy.

Find Josephine. He had to keep reminding himself, lest he get side-tracked by the thousand other things vying for his attention, like usual. Varric sent him a wave as he passed and he wasn’t sure if it was a _hello_ wave or a _come chat with me_ wave, so he made a detour.

The hearth still blazed, even in early evening. The mountain chill had just barely settled in for the day.

“Hey, Boots. How’re you doing?” Varric asked once within earshot, looking expectant. There was something in the way he fiddled that made Lavellan think he had an ulterior motive.

“Fine.” He replied, and he meant it. Sort of. Varric gave a slow nod.

“In that case, I wanted to invite you to a little event we’re doing. Wicked Grace. I got everybody in on it.” Lavellan flashed a tight smile.

“I’m not sure I should.” He replied. He had to find Josephine, wherever she was. Tell her to let out his quarters for as many people as she could find. Then, perhaps, this seed of guilt in his gut would start to wither.

“I’ll buy your drinks?” Varric offered, looking a bit more desperate. The elf let out an uneasy laugh.

“Today’s given me a thirst that’d empty your coffers, I’m afraid.” He gave the dwarf an amiable slap on the shoulder, even as he seemed to wilt from being turned down. “I’m quite happy to waste away in solitude.”

Varric let out a tight sigh, then, and put on his _I’m-going-to-be-frank-with-you_ expression.

“Can I be honest?” He asked, lowering his voice.

“Don’t know. Can you?” He suppressed his flinch at the accidentally too-rude reply. Perhaps he was more tired than he realized.

“I’m _worried_ about you, Boots. Losing family takes its toll on anyone, but with your track record?” He made a vague gesture. Lavellan’s face wound up in contention. “Look. You’re not the first stubborn son-of-a-bitch I’ve been friends with, and you’re probably not gonna be the last. Just…” he trailed off. He fought to look Lavellan in the eye, imploring. “...I’m here for you, alright? We all are. You’ve got the shittiest luck in Thedas, but you’re not going through it alone.” Lavellan stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Thanks, Varric.” He said, a bit softer. “Rain check on that game?” Varric flashed a smile.

“Of course, Boots. Whenever you’re ready.” Lavellan stepped away to get back on track, sending a wave over his shoulder. Where was Josephine?

-

It was fortunate that, aside from literally _all_ other things he’d gotten out of it, having someone to sleep next to meant he’d be sleeping in a bed at all. Dorian had seemed surprised to have him show up at his door until he explained why he couldn’t stay in his own quarters.

“This is why I tell you to be selfish, my dear,” Dorian continued on, turning back from his dresser with a bottle in his hand. He handed it over by the neck, its contents sloshing like a shadow beneath the green-tinted glass. Lavellan uncorked it, gave it a whiff, and then took a long swig. Why in the world Dorian was giving him _decent_ stuff to drink by the bottle, rather than mock-vinegar, he’d never understand. Truthfully, he probably could've found a more constructive form of comfort.

“Someone selfish has never had to give up their own bath. Not that _they’ll_ be the ones using it, mind you, but I doubt you’ll be that person, either, at this point.” Lavellan corked the bottle once more and then, trapping it beneath folded hands, he stared into the middle-distance. In his silence, Dorian sat beside him on the bed. He heard a sigh from the mage’s direction and then there was a hand carding through his hair.

“What’s on your mind?” That haughty tone had started to fade. Lavellan sank with one long sigh.

“This must be where I get it from,” he murmured, “running away.” He looked down, fiddling with a button on the leg of his trousers. Why did they get off easy? Why did they go where he couldn’t follow? Why didn’t they wait? Perhaps it was a final fuck-you from his mother; dying before he could prove her wrong. A bitter frown found its way onto Lavellan's lips.

“Fitting, though, isn’t it?” He let out a wry laugh, “they’re gone, and now I’m left to pick up the pieces. I get by on scraps of affection for twenty _years_ and all I have left to show for it are some ugly-looking scars and a bad habit.” His thumb pressed hard into the waxy seal just before the neck of the bottle. It imprinted the grubby design onto the pad. Why couldn't he see his mother one last time, to tell her he didn't forgive her? Why didn't they survive long enough to know just how those scars lasted? He grit his teeth tight enough to make his jaw ache.

“Syrillon…” his face wound up in a wince at the name on another’s lips.

“Don’t.” He whispered, “please.” Just a name shot fear through his heart. The fear of being seen, or else treated, the way _Syrillon_ always was, when he’d been him. The fear of _being_ Syrillon, enjoying it, and living without the comfortable, protective shell of a title as his name. Syrillon made mistakes and was just a man. A silly, childish, _ruined_ man that deserved a worse fate than martyrdom or retribution. He had to deserve it, didn’t he? Or else, what were all these scars for?

“This is it, isn’t it? The answer?” He swallowed past the aching lump in his throat, the heat of shame rising in his cheeks and behind his eyes. What right did he have to be upset, now? To cry? “Why I always do… _this._ Why I run. I’ve pushed it down and down and down until I can’t feel it and now it’s all coming back up.” His hands shook and he dropped the bottle limply into his lap. It was plucked up and set aside, out of his reach. Now, with nothing else, he picked at his nails.

“It doesn’t matter what it is. Pain, sadness, worry, fear; I need to hide it. A _good son_ would hide it, but I just--” He spat his words; bitter and stunted. He pressed a hand to his mouth, eyes flooding with tears he couldn’t push down. “--I just _can’t.”_

Those hot tears overflowed and he squeezed his eyes shut, hand still over his mouth, trying uselessly to cover the sobs as they started to come. Arms encircled him and he was being squeezed tight, which, though it helped, only made the tears come faster. His right hand wound in a desperate fist, fingers clutching tight to whatever material he could grab along Dorian’s back. He pressed his face into his chest; small metal adornments leaving tiny red imprints along his cheek and temple.

The hollow ache in his chest turned to embarrassed shame, which turned to a deep-seated nausea. What right did he have to be comforted? Coddled, and looked after, when it was _his_ fault? Still, he didn’t move. His limbs were numb and heavy and the turning of his stomach wasn’t enough to make him pull away.

A hand ran through his hair and he relaxed, bit by bit, until the tears ran out and he was left with a dull thudding behind his eyes. His sobs continued until he was too tired to be shaken by them anymore. They died out altogether. The past four days caught up, nipping at his heels. He had barely an ounce of energy left to spare, but still, he pulled away.

His good hand sought out Dorian’s cheek and, gently as he could manage without toppling into him, he pressed a weak kiss to his jaw. The mage’s gaze on him was concerned once he pulled back, so he cast his drooping red eyes to the bedsheets. He sniffled weakly.

“Thank you.” He said, hand sliding to Dorian’s shoulder. It squeezed once, though there wasn’t much to it. In his periphery, he caught a nod.

“You’re welcome, amatus,” he replied, matching his soft tone. He leaned back in, head resting limply against that shoulder. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that we've got all that crying out of the way!


	43. Strong but Untested

Lavellan picked at the small turnip cake in his hand. His stomach ached, but even still, he couldn’t bring himself to eat. Whether it was from nerves or his now ever-present nausea, he couldn’t tell. Distantly, he could hear elven singing. He couldn’t make out the words over the clamour of the training yard between himself and his fellows. It only made his stomach turn more.

“Hey, you! I have a bone to pick with you, Inquisitor.” Sera drawled. Lavellan snapped to attention, looking around. He stepped out from under the eave of the kitchen entrance and then, looking up at the small half-roof, he spotted her. She sat at the top of it, legs laid out limp along the slope.

“What’s that?” He asked, standing a few strides out.

“All this  _ elfy  _ shit.” She replied, expecting him to know the context. He nodded slowly, visibly waiting for her to continue. She let out a frustrated sound and threw up her hands. “It’s  _ weird!  _ Do they ever stop singing?” He gave her a vague shrug.

“Probably.” He said.

“It’s always  _ gods-this  _ and  _ elf-ears-that  _ and  _ we-don’t-wear-shoes.  _ Can’t hear the gossip over all the racket!” She continued on, still whining.

“My heart’s weepin’ for you, dear.” Lavellan climbed up onto a stack of firewood beside the small jut-out of building, holding his food carefully in one hand as he stepped up to the roof. He walked the few uneasy strides towards her, then took a seat on the roughly-shingled surface.

“Tell you what,” he said, letting his legs hang the same way as hers, “let’s make a bargain.” He waved the cake in his hand. “You stop complaining, I’ll give you my share.”

“How long?” She asked, weighing the offer with a shrewd look.

“Let’s call it… three weeks.”

“Deal.” She said quickly, “you n’ mister-magister can share your snack cakes.” Lavellan handed over the treat in his grasp, which Sera quickly got to work tearing apart. It was better than cookies by a long shot.

He hummed his lukewarm agreement, gazing out at the dull blue sky. Wispy clouds streaked across it, stretching out from the horizon in all directions. The world was alight but the sun was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re…  _ alright,  _ right?” Sera asked after a moment. Lavellan glanced back up, quirking a brow. “I mean--you’re not gonna go daft an’ start setting everybody’s breeches on fire, right?”

“Not breeches, no.” He replied.

“I…” she voiced, but it trailed off. Then, “...I’m not good at this, so don’t laugh, yeah?” Lavellan gave a sigh, as if it would be the most difficult thing in the world, “I don’t know about elfy things. Or family stuff. All that rot.” She fell silent again, looking pensive.

“You ever need a cheer-up, you’ll come find me, right?” Her tone had changed an inch to be a bit less vulnerable. A small smile crossed Lavellan’s lips and he gave her a small slap on the arm, which she returned. “Don’t want you goin’ all  _ aah  _ and rippin’ friggin’ heads off.”

“Of course, da’ean,” he replied in a laugh.

“Oh, no. I don’t like  _ that.”  _ His next laugh was more real. Childish.

“Good luck getting one of these  _ proper elf  _ types to tell you what it means.” Lavellan taunted, climbing to his feet. He moved quickly, if a bit precariously, back to the end of the roof. Pieces of cake and heckling insults were hurled at his back as he fled.

-

The robes weren’t exactly  _ ceremonial,  _ given all that had been left behind, but they were certainly  _ different.  _ They reminded him enough of the ones he’d grown up in to make his movement and attitude more… held back. As if the thick tie around his waist restrained him from throwing a red-eyed, fat-faced fit at any given time during their mourning. As if he expected his mother to come marching out from behind a parapet, ready to drag him by the ear off to his detention. It was probably for the best he didn't start a scene.

The sun had made its exit without ever giving a greeting. It was now an orange haze behind the far-off silhouette of overlapping mountain peaks as Lavellan stood, stone-faced, staring out at them. The sky seemed to go on for miles. He slipped his hands under the material cinched at his waist and just stayed that way for a moment, palms pressed against the hot material of his robe.

The music, though? It was for mourning, but still, a good reminder. Nostalgic, even if for a poor reason. The dances weren’t quite as he remembered. Though, it seemed, they still remembered him. The steps were all out of order and his feet felt clumsy, both from the wine and the song, but it hadn’t felt as wrong as he’d expected it to. It was a reminder he still held more of home than he’d thought--or perhaps wanted--to have. It wasn’t the sort of music he’d grown used to; lute music, or something easy to dance to with lyrics composed of loosely-veiled euphemism and words drunks could pronounce.

They had given their prayer before the dancing. He had spent it stewing in silence, given that his only job was to stand beside the newly-appointed Keeper and look attentive. As Yevan laid out the prayer to Falon’Din, Syrillon made one of his own. He prayed, to the Maker, or Andraste, or else Falon’Din--whoever was in charge--that his parents might be watching. That his mother could see.  _ Maker,  _ he’d thought,  _ Creators, allow them to know, finally, that I was a better son than she gave me credit for. _

The heat and the excitement of the party was gone when he wasn’t immersed in it. His heart wasn’t racing in his ears as he moved in winding circles, grip tight but slipping on someone-or-other whose hand he needed to grab. There were a hundred breathless smiles as he passed, each of them ragged, in their way, but it was a welcome change from moping. Now, he had only the sloping, grey-white face of a neighboring peak.  The sound of music and cheer carried on the breeze sweeping through the ramparts. He filled his lungs up with one deep breath. Then, holding it for a moment, he released it with the wind.

“You got tired of dancing quick,” someone said, “you’re too young to get winded. What’s your excuse?” The tone was flippant and light. The stranger came to lean against the palisade beside where Lavellan stood; an elf, dressed in ragged clothing. She was more worn since last he’d seen her. She seemed shorter, too, but that was his own fault. She had her sun-spotted arms crossed over her chest as she canted her head to give him a knowing look. He let out a laugh to humour her.

“Too much on my mind. Made it hard to focus on the dancing bit.”

“Mm. Ain’t that the truth, there.” Her thin lips pulled into a sideways smile. It cut thick creases into the skin of her cheeks and around her eyes. Lavellan watched her in his periphery as she grew quiet, watching the sky laid out at his back.

“I’m sorry, hahren,” he said, a bit weaker, “is there something you need?”

“The sky’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?” She asked instead. Syrillon turned, weighing the question in his mind, and cast his eyes to where she looked. The orange light of the dying sun stretched out to a dim blue at the opposite mountain range. Skyhold’s hundred candles and lantern-lights corrupted the subtle change in colour. The tiny glittering specks in the courtyard reminded him of lights on the water, those half-hundred months ago.

“It is.” He agreed in a murmur. She released a soft sigh through her drooped nose.

“I remember everyone who leaves.” Her voice was quiet. Private. It was so low but so loud between the solitary two of them. “And I remember when you arrived. You were a snotty one, you know, and I mean that literally.”

“Thanks.”

“I remember your father, too. He looked like you do, now. Young. Wise in ways he shouldn’t've been. You know about him, don’t you?” He nodded mutely. The story had been told and retold a thousand times. He was certain he could still recite it by heart.

“I think that’s why he wanted you. Another family would’ve taken you in, but he insisted. Despite the arguments.” His lips pulled into something caught between a smile and a wince.  _ That was where he got his stubborn charity, then, for better or for worse. Probably worse.  _ “He wasn’t Keeper because of his blood, you know. He was Keeper because he did what he believed he must.”

“Didn’t do him much good, did it?” Syrillon whispered. His thumb ran along the jagged surface of the palisade, dull nail scraping the uneven grain of cut stone.

“No. Didn’t.” She agreed, grabbing his arm in a gentle handful. “But for all his faults, he was brave. I see that in you, too.” He managed a weak, pitiful laugh. Being likened to a man who died needlessly for the sake of others was an unkind, if accurate, thing to say. It stung a bit, too, knowing how deep it was ingrained into him.

“It takes a brave man to challenge tradition and be true to himself. It takes a braver man to stand in the face of opposition and hold to that truth.” She shook his arm a bit in her grasp. His eyes remained on the stone. “Doubly so when that opposition comes from the ones you thought would be at your back.”

Her hand moved, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. She drew away and he listened as her steps, softly padded against the stone rampart, faded to silence. He was left alone with the wind and the phantom songs he’d used to know. His fingers dug weakly into the palisade.

He looked out at the dying sunlight once more. The clouds were dusky pinks and whites, as if the Creators had allowed the sky to be painted in a final memorial. One last goodbye. He might’ve seen a few halla in amongst those clouds, running together through their umber-coloured world. The wind pushed them out just as the curtains closed.

“Goodbye.” Syrillon whispered. The wind carried it out, passing through valleys and over snow-capped mountaintops. It pushed the clouds onward into the great nothing over the horizon. Then, eyes unfocused, his hands unclenched. He stepped back, dropped them to his sides.

“You were never a mother to me.” The wind wicked the weight from his shoulders, if only for a moment.

Syrillon softly sealed his lips, took a hard swallow, and cast one final, lingering glance to the horizon. Then, he turned his back.

-

The Herald’s rest was warm and calm, all things considered. Lavellan reclined with an ale in one hand, a borrowed jacket thrown over him as the late night--or, evidently, early morning--chill set into the tavern. Josephine continued to rake in silvers and sovereigns by the bushel, to most everyone’s chagrin. Blackwall returned from stoking the hearth, wiping ash onto his trouser leg. He sat with a grunt just one seat down from the elf, returning to his half-empty tankard.

“And you wouldn’t believe the sheer amount of  _ cheese.”  _ Cullen recounted, gesturing sloppily. The drink had eased him just enough into shrugging off his fur-lined jacket, which now warmed Josephine’s shoulders. A light bump to Lavellan’s arm had him leaning over, attentive. He skimmed over Dorian’s cards from behind another sip of his drink. Then, he plucked one from the man’s hand and set it onto the table, face-down, in his place.

_ “Boots,”  _ Varric chided, interrupting Cullen’s story and drawing the collective gaze of the table towards him. “That’s real cute and all, but if you’re gonna play, just play.” Lavellan raised his glass and his free hand in his own defense.

“I’m not doing anything.” He lied lazily. He lolled his head, shooting Dorian an overplayed roll of his eyes. “Do you believe these people? Pedants! The nerve, really.”

“Absolutely. You’d think they’ve heard of the phrase  _ fighting fire with fire.” _

“Perhaps,” Josephine chimed, “if you need to borrow the advice of an Antivan to win against me, you should back out while you still can.”

“I say we allow it.” Cullen said, elbowing at Lavellan’s other side, “so long as I can partake.” The elf leaned over the other armrest, plucking one from Cullen's hand. His choice of card earned a furrow from the commander’s brow.

“Anyone else want a share of the wealth?” Lavellan asked. Cassandra waved a lazy hand. She was nearly three tankards in and seemed to scowl at her cards every chance she got. Whether it was causation or correlation, she kept losing. Skipping from his seat, Lavellan came to peer over her shoulder.

“Oh, that’s a terrible hand, that.” He murmured, picking through her cards. He put two down onto the table. Her brows raised and she twisted to look up at him.

“Really?” She whispered. He gave her a grave nod and a pat on the shoulder. With a frown, she sunk in her seat an inch. Lavellan trailed back to his spot and took a long drink of his ale. He sent Dorian a sideways glance and a small smile. Once his turn came, he backed out. Cullen followed. Cassandra revealed her cards and the table paused for one long moment.

“Oh, whoops, guess I read them wrong.” Lavellan said, not looking at her revealed hand. Unconvincing in his lie, he drained his ale.

“Congratulations, Seeker,” Varric scoffed, pushing a small heap of coin towards her end of the table. Cassandra, visibly startled, sat up in her seat. She looked between the winnings, a proud-looking advisor, and the Inquisitor. The latter gave a small shrug. Iron Bull returned to the table from his extended absence, another few tankards in his grasp.

“So?” He asked. "Anything good happen?"

“The man is so  _ sad,  _ but she’s smiling! It’s  _ good.  _ She’s never won a game.” Cole reported, matter-of-fact. He sat atop his seat with knees drawn to his chest, his cards long since forgotten.

Cassandra swept her winnings, clumsily, into a pouch. She sectioned off a small portion--about a handful; no more than twenty sovereign--and kept it on the table until the lump sum was packed away. She swept the remaining into one hand and walked it to where Lavellan reclined. She set it down beside his tankard to the sound of his squawked,  _ “what, what, what?” _

“Consultant’s fee.” She explained, pointing to it.

“I don’t need it. Take it.” Lavellan insisted, pushing it away. She put her hand at the other side, pushing back.

“Save it. Take Dorian somewhere warm.” His contention fizzled out.

“I like the sound of that. You’re a wise woman.” Said mage piped up, waggling one finger towards her. Lavellan folded with a frown, hands retreating to cross childishly over his chest. He still didn’t reach to take it.

“Fine.” He said poutily. Cassandra spared him a rare smile and returned to her seat.

“Anybody up for another game?” Varric asked, sweeping in the cards as they were returned to him. He collected them in one hand and his thick fingers got to work shuffling.

“I’m in.” Cullen chimed, reclining in his seat with a cocky smile, “I think I’ve worked out our Ambassador’s tells.”

“An Antivan  _ has  _ no tells, Commander.” Josephine challenged.

“I’m inclined to disagree.” Dorian tittered, quietly clearing his throat. He earned a soft smack to his arm. Clapping a gentle hand over his mouth, he put on a look of disingenuous shock. “Oh _bother,_ did I just say that? How uncouth.”

“Yes, very cute.” Lavellan drawled.

“So, is that it? We’re just watching Curly lose all his money?” Varric asked, dealing the cards between the two competitors.

“So little faith!” Cullen accused, taking up his hand.

“For good reason, Commander.” Josephine reminded. Lavellan tucked in to watch the show just as Bull started up a long-winded story about something-or-other to do with his Chargers. The elf found Dorian’s hand atop the table and, seizing it, held it between his own.


	44. A Herald for the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically everything past the Well of Sorrows filled me with disappointment. I mean I still liked it, but like? The dragon, the somewhat pointless Flemeth cameo, the lame asf final battle... :(
> 
> So you can expect a few differences between canon and this story. Just for the drama, as always; it's nothing that would change the outcome of the story.

The sun seemed to shine a little brighter these days. The dappled spots of light cutting through the shaggy, protuberant canopy lit up the forest in more vibrant greens and browns than before. What little could be seen of the sky was free of clouds and any hint at rain; it was as if the Earth smiled for them. Lavellan stood, precariously, atop a knot in the bark halfway up one tree, watching the sky through a gap in the foliage. Laid out above them was miles of cerulean silk.

“I think your map’s broken, Boots.” Varric croaked, about ten paces from the Inquisitor’s lookout. The dwarf stood squinting down his nose at the parchment. Bull wandered over to study it from over his head. “I could’a sworn that tree was back there.”

“Are we lost?” Lavellan asked, not seeming entirely worried. He’d gotten lost in worse places and now, here he was:  _ not  _ lost in those places anymore. Dorian, flipping through his own little tome a few paces from them, perked up. Even from a distance, he looked alarmed.

“Nah, nah,” Bull said, stealing the map from Varric’s hands. He turned it round in his grip, good eye studying it carefully. “I know where we are. Nowhere near the rift, though, so there’s that.” Varric let out a frustrated groan.

“Onward and upward!” Lavellan chimed, sliding, and then jumping, from his lookout. “Any idea which direction we’re headed?” Bull looked between the map and the surrounding wood. One finger up, he deliberated for a moment.

“That way, Boss.” He said, decisive, pointing to his right. Lavellan took the direction to heart and started the march forward.

Evidently, most of the party wasn’t especially fond of navigating their way through the bush. Dorian, Lavellan knew, disliked  _ outside  _ as a generalization. Varric, with his array of dislikes, had all but given up the right of map-use to Bull for favour of listing the reasons forests were the  _ worst  _ place to be. Bull, meanwhile, had to duck and shuffle around low-hanging branches on a regular basis while still keeping them on-course. Sometimes, Lavellan caught a murmur from the Qunari on the breeze.  _ “Just a little more, Bull,”  _ he’d say, as if it were a mantra,  _ “then it’s dragon time.” _

A yelp deep in the wood to their right gave the party pause. A few seconds passed in their silence. Then, a definite--though distant--shouting. It was unintelligible. Lavellan, scrambling, looked between the party.

“Someone should stay on the path.” He ordered. Varric and Bull both touched their noses as soon as it was announced, dibs-ing out. Dorian’s face wound up in a sneer and a bitter huff of  _ “southerners!” _

“I’m not doing it alone!” The mage insisted. Varric folded with a sigh.

“Sparkler and I can wait here,” he volunteered, “take Tiny with you. Do us a favour and don’t die.” Lavellan gave him a thumbs-up, ready the go hurtling into the underbrush.

“Stay here. We’ll be right back.” The Inquisitor instructed. He and Bull descended into the brush and, as their cracking steps faded, the foliage pressed in around them. They disappeared from sight. A chaotic silence fell, where only bird calls and rustling vegetation were heard.

“This feels like a bad idea.” Varric murmured once a scant minute had passed.

“Tell me about it.” Dorian let out a tense sigh. Both men studied the once-parted foliage and waited. Listening.

Then, there was a yell. Loud and panic-stricken, though it wasn’t clear who it had come from. Both men fidgeted anxiously. Then, after another moment:

“Wanna check it out?” Varric asked quietly.

“Maker,  _ yes,  _ obviously.” The both of them descended into the bush, as well, following the miniature path of carnage left behind by the Qunari’s horns and heavy steps. Varric charted the course while Dorian looked about, carefully searching for any signs of movement. Something off the course caught his attention. It looked to be a pair of eyes hidden within the foliage.

Dorian went to call the dwarf’s attention, but when he looked back, he’d disappeared. He snapped his lips shut in his surprise. He called out, but only the birds answered. It dawned on him, slowly, that he was all of a sudden stranded. In the middle of the bush. Without a map. Yes, this was a  _ very  _ bad idea.

He looked back to where he’d seen the eyes, but they were gone. It was with a sigh and a bitter curse he resigned himself to his fate: either to be rescued like a damsel or eaten by a bear. He found a tall root to sit upon, laid out some runes along the forest floor (should any especially hungry beasties come by), and then cracked open his book.

-

Lavellan, followed closely by the Qunari, broke through the bush to find a clearing. Dozens of sheep milled about, a few of which were immediately startled off by their sudden appearance. They bounded away, bleating in fright, and Lavellan relaxed with a sigh. In a sea of unshorn sheep was an older man--elven--with a stick in hand, giving one of the animals a stern talking-to.

“Hello!” Lavellan called out. The man, about thirty paces away, let out a surprised shout. Lavellan, only a bit startled, hopped the small twig fence at the edge of the clearing. The shepard came to meet him, clutching one thin hand at his ragged tunic.

“You scared the livin’ daylights outta me, boy.” He chided, letting out a puff of breath. Lavellan, offering a smile, gave a tiny bow.

“Sorry about that. Don’t suppose you get much company out here, do you?”

“No, brother. Just sheep for me. Been hearing a racket these days, when folks’ll come by; soldiers and the like. The fighting’s far from here, but they’ll stop and trade meat and that. Say they’ve been seeing frightful things out in the woods not far.”

“They’d be right,” Lavellan said, “have you heard of the Inquisition?” The older elf’s brows raised an inch.

“You mean that good-for-nothing group ‘s been picking the entire place dry past few months?” Lavellan let out a laugh despite himself.

“Oh, so you  _ have  _ heard of us! That’s good.” The older elf, flashing a lopsided smile, gave Lavellan a clap on the arm.

“Yeah, fair play on that one. You goin’t clean things up around here, then?”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Awh, go on, then. Why’d you stop here? Not just to startle the sheep, right?” Lavellan folded his arms over his chest.

“To tell you the truth, I thought I heard trouble. Came by to help.” Another clap on the arm, but the elder elf’s smile was bigger this time.

“What a man. No, no, we’re all alright here. Not another man nor sheep far as you could walk for another four hours. But you stop by ever you need trading, yeah? So long’s you use the front gate.” Lavellan stepped away, letting out a polite chuckle.

“You’ve got a deal, my man.” He sent a wave over his shoulder as he jogged back towards the treeline. Unintelligible well-wishes were sent after him. It was when Lavellan crossed back into the bush that he realized, with an equal measure of surprise and dread, Bull was nowhere to be found.

How exactly he’d lost a  _ Qunari,  _ Lavellan would never be able to understand. He was as tall and wide as anything and he should’ve left a very Iron Bull-shaped hole in the landscape wherever he went. Lavellan, however, was at a loss. Thus, he was left to wander back towards the road, otherwise aimless.

Another helping of dread passed over him when he made it back only to find it empty for as far as he could see down it in either direction. So, not only had a very obvious-seeming Qunari somehow been whisked away, the other half of the party had gone, as well.

Lavellan was starting to think something nefarious could be afoot up until he heard another distant call. This time, it was more familiar. It sounded like… Varric. It took a few tries, but then--yes. Those were Varric’s nicknames. The dwarf was somewhere out there, calling  _ Tiny!  _ And  _ Sparkler!  _ And  _ Boots!  _ As if he were the most niche salesman in Val Royeaux. Lavellan followed the sound down the road until he spotted movement in the underbrush.

“Varric?” He called, staying at the cleared path. “It’s Lavellan.” A surprised sound, and then some heavy rustling followed. The dwarf came stumbling out onto the road.

“Boots!” Varric replied, throwing up his hands. “Andraste’s tits, I’m glad to see you. Where’s Tiny?” There were little leaves stuck stubbornly to his hair and jacket.

“No idea. Where’s Dorian?”

“No idea.” Varric gave him a small clap on the arm. “But if I had to guess, at least one is waiting to be rescued.”

Lavellan led the way back down the road where he’d come, searching out a tree he’d marked. He removed the tie from its branch and tucked it into his pocket.

“Stay close, alright?” He requested. He held out a hand to the dwarf who, after looking at it with some exception, thought better of turning up his nose. Varric took a gloved handful of the elf’s sleeve and followed him back into the bush. It was only after a few minutes of retracing their earlier path that they stumbled across the mage tucked in amongst the trees.

“Well, don't you look comfortable.” Lavellan accused, startling Dorian from his book. "Should let you get lost in the forest more often." He hopped from his seat, plucking up his staff along the way, and moved quickly to the familiar pair.

“It’s about time.” He huffed, giving Lavellan a relieved hug, regardless. “I was starting to hear footsteps and growls. I was nearly lunch today, I’m telling you.”

“Mm-hmm. You’re all three of you lucky that I’ve got my wits about me. You two, especially. I  _ told  _ you to stay on the road.” Lavellan gestured between them, stern. Varric gave him a flippant wave and Dorian looped an arm around his shoulders.

“Yes, yes, we’re forever in your debt. I’ll be sure to thank you personally and in great detail. Now, can we  _ please  _ get out of this forest? I’m starting to forget what buildings look like.”

“Almost.” Lavellan replied, casting his gaze up to the canopy. “We should find Bull. Hopefully, if we head in the direction of the rift, we’ll come across him.”

“That sounds like a great idea.” Varric chimed, “except that  _ he’s  _ the one with the map. Are you just gonna insist that we wander?”

“No, no,” Lavellan said, leaving Dorian’s grasp to test a sturdy-looking tree. “I’ve got a bit of a back-up plan.” Then, given a moment, he started to scale it. A few small leaves and tree nuts fell in his wake once he pulled himself up onto a branch. From there, he parted the foliage to peer out at the sky. It took some trying, but he was able to spot the sun where it laid.

“So,” Varric called from below, “What do your elf-eyes see?” Lavellan sat himself down on the branch.

“That we need to head…” he trailed off, visibly working to right himself, “...south. That way.” He gestured one direction and then descended, somewhat precariously, from the tree. With all their eggs in the one shaky basket, the party of three meandered through the forest once more.

-

The distant droning of a rift was a welcome noise, despite its innate connotation of being  _ bad  _ and  _ demon-y.  _ Then, at the sound of battle and a familiar war cry, there was a shared sense of relief. The forest parted and the trio could see the Iron Bull, already smeared with a layer of fade-borne mystery goop, fighting off two shades. One of them was immolated into a neat pile of ash before he could turn to hit it into submission.  When the Qunari looked up to see the rest of the party, he threw up an arm and gave a welcome  _ hey-y!  _ It was cut short when another shade came for his flank and, whirling around, he smashed it into little pieces.

“You get bored of me, so you decide to save the world all on your own?” Lavellan accused, the anchor slowly coming to life. It was like a gentle humming against his skin. Then, bit by bit, it started to grow warm. Pins and needles filled his fingertips.

“Something like that, yeah.” Bull replied, standing at the ready. Wave after wave of spawned demons had already been cut down, leaving Lavellan to seal up the rift and call it done. He moved into place and raised his hand.

The heat of the anchor grew unbearable as soon as it sensed the tear. Like fire licking at his skin, it moved greedily up his arm; where normally it would only traipse as far as his elbow, it now burned up to his chest and neck. It seemed to crawl into his throat and into his tongue, choking the breath from his lungs.

He could feel the Fade reaching out to him, tugging his mana as if by an invisible string, and he took an involuntary step forward. Then another. At the same time, the arcs of green light moving between the rift and the anchor seemed to yank, insistently, at his arm. Then, the yanking turned changed. Twisting, pulling, grabbing--given one more pull, his entire arm could’ve been torn from its socket.

The rift closed and the pulling disappeared all at once. Lavellan stumbled back, off-balance, when a dizziness hit him. His head spun--the same as if he’d stood up too fast--as his blood rushed towards his left arm. What should’ve been a stumble turned into a backwards trip, and before he could move to catch himself, his vision blotted out.

He came to not a minute later, held halfway upright by one thick arm. A stabbing pain through the crown of his skull made him slap his good hand to his head. His marked arm stayed limp at his side. Bull pulled him properly onto his feet and kept one hand near his back, all the while Dorian doted over him; giving him water and a healing potion and whatever else he insisted upon. Lavellan tried to move left arm, only to earn a cascade of pins and needles. The skin was entirely numb to the touch, but the heat hadn’t entirely dispersed; leaving him with a feverish sweat which made him stick uncomfortably to the inside of his armor.

“Was the rift that bad?” Varric asked, fidgeting nearby. Lavellan could only manage an exhausted shake of his head, which he supposed must’ve been the wrong answer, given how concerned a look he earned. The pain wound his face up, which caused a phantom ache in the warped bridge of his nose. He pinched it with his good hand.

“Well, that’s the last one, right?” The dwarf ventured next.

“Far as we know.” Lavellan replied, voice strained from the pain and the effort of keeping upright. “Of the ones we’ve marked.”

“Let’s just hope the universe can hold itself together for a couple more weeks, then.” Varric murmured.

“Let’s make camp here.” Bull said, saying aloud what the party already knew. What Lavellan would ultimately deny, and the rest of them would then ignore. Like clockwork:

“We don’t have to. There’s a camp only about an hour from here.” Bull was already walking off to set down packs and collect firewood.

“I don’t know if you recall,” Varric replied, taking up the mantle of party-member-who-politely-tells-Lavellan-to-shut-the-fuck-up, “but that one hour walk took us about five times as long as it should’ve the first time around. I don’t care what you say, you’re not in a condition to walk another five hours.”

Lavellan slumped, giving up the argument--which was a formality, really--with little heat. He was sat down carefully in a clear space and then left to wait, frowning droopily, as everyone else set up the meager camp for the night.


	45. A Being Beyond Time, Bound to be Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two short chapters. I would have made them the same chapter but separated by a little -- but the tone and setting is completely different. Updates will probably slow down; there's only about 5-10 more chapters left to this story! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so anyway that thing where you meet the dragon kinda made me :/

Lavellan tread carefully between thick tree trunks, focused more on the voices warring in his ear than the world around. Varric kept close to his side, helping to brush branches out of the way as he walked, focused, with an unseen goal.  _ Stop,  _ the voices commanded. Lavellan paused, looking around. He scanned the dense forest. It was all emerald-green foliage and knotty trunks as far as any of them could see. A gentle breeze passed through, shaking up the leaves. Tucked in beside the carcass of a long-dead downed tree was an elven archway. It was the same gentle curved slope as any other left, long since forgotten, to sink into the landscape of Thedas.

_ There,  _ the voices instructed,  _ the doorway.  _ It was slumped partly to one side; its left half was barely composed of a few chunks of rock and pebble, worn away by its thousand-year idling. Lavellan could see through to the other side: dense wood, the same as everywhere else, not three feet in front. Still, he followed the instruction. He sidled up to the partly-collapsed doorway and, as he appraised it, the Well kept silent. He stepped through.

He’d barely blinked. Now, through the archway, he was in a clearing. It was a near-perfect circle, lined by trees too old and too close together to be natural. They formed a dense wall all the way around the fifty-foot diameter. Lavellan took another few steps in. The grass was dense and it seemed to flower and grow over wherever he tread. The weeds threatened to grab hold of his feet if he idled too long.

“Clever!” Dorian remarked, partway to awe, once he’d stepped through. Varric was too tripped up by the over-growing weeds to make any comments. Lavellan moved a few strides closer to the centre, casting his gaze up to the canopy. The world they’d come from was at mid-day; the sun sat boiling at its height, suspended in a clear sky. Here, the tapestry of night laid just out of reach behind the far-away tops of the trees. It was speckled with unfamiliar stars. No other light touched it, but the clearing was lit like daytime.

Shuffling sideways (and partly crouching), Bull slipped through the archway behind them. He appraised the odd place and the foreign sky with a furrowed brow.

“Where’s the dragon?” He asked, almost demanding. Lavellan glanced around. Trees bent and wound around one another, as if corrupted, the closer they came to the only building in the clearing: a small, lonely shrine. From the distance, he could tell it was a statue of Mythal sitting atop the overgrown steps.

“Not a mind that,” Lavellan drawled, kicking off a few wildflowers, “where’s the door?” He gestured to the place where they’d come, which was now dense forest, as well. The trunks were thick enough to be completely impassable.

“Oh. Great.” Varric grunted. “Magic forest.”

“More interesting than regular forest, though, huh?” Lavellan asked, trying to look encouraging. Varric wrestled his boots from an especially rowdy patch of daisies and cast a frown towards his cheery-looking Inquisitor.

Lavellan took point as they moved steadily closer to the shine. Morrigan’s advice rang through his mind:  _ don’t touch anything  _ and  _ only trust the Well  _ being the most pertinent. Did walking along enchanted ground count as touching?

There must’ve been an invisible line somewhere in the grass. As Lavellan’s foot crossed a midpoint in the clearing, a rumbling began, the origin of which was unseen. Backtracking didn’t seem to make it stop. The party condensed, ready to draw weapons, just as the trees seemed to groan and shift. Then, with some surprise, they found those trees moving.

They raised up, shifting in some places, until--yes. That was a _foot._ Coiled around the circumference of the clearing was an enormous beast--the likes of which was incredible and unforeseen--and it let out a groaning yawn as it raised up. Dirt, rock and entire century-old trees came tumbling down in chunks. A barrier was struck up, shielding the party from a rain of soil as the beast shook itself like a wet hound.

It was when the long, articulated neck had turned and the beast showed its face that they realized, with some horror, _this_ was the dragon. It was the size of Haven’s chantry--no, it was the size of _Haven,_ wingspan and all _\--_ and it unfurled itself to sit up. Its thick, woody claws were as large as three men bound together and with one small step, the party was corralled between two of them. The dragon leaned down, slow and weary, and let out a puff of breath through its nostrils that swept over them like a gust of wind.

Needless to say, the party wasn’t optimistic. Lavellan put one arm out--keeping any attack at bay (though it wasn’t needed, with all the gawking they were busy doing)--as the enormous dragon dipped low enough to study them with one copper-coloured eye. The pupil itself was just six inches shorter than Varric, when it widened. The beast focused in on the party--ants, in comparison--and it let out a long, low rumble which made the Earth shake underfoot. It was both an incredible marvel and a smallclothes-shitting experience to be so close to something which could eat a man without noticing.

The clearing went silent, save for the continued heaving sound of the giant’s breaths. It was like the sound of wind bearing down on an old building; it echoed inside its massive chest and then reverberated into the ground. The party stayed frozen. A hand squeezed on Lavellan’s upper arm--one which he hadn’t noticed--and he took in a surprised gasp he tried to suppress.

“What do we do, Boss?” Bull asked from the back of the party, barely a whisper.

“Back up. Slow.” Lavellan instructed, keeping his eyes on the dragon. One step back. Two steps. They couldn't leave, but they could at least do _something._ Seeing their small movement, it quirked its head to one side. Lavellan paused, so the party inched back without him. For a moment, a gut feeling gave him too much confidence. The party retreated, step by hesitant step, until they were at a marginally safer distance. On a hunch, Lavellan raised one hand--his marked one--and tried to not shake with nerves.

_ Don’t bite, don’t bite, don’t bite, don’t bite-- _

The dragon, considering the offering, brought its head forward and imperceptible amount. It turned its head to give it a long sniff. Then, following another rumble, its head lowered. It pressed its snout against him, moreso his entire upper body than the hand. Lavellan let out a surprised grunt as the massive weight knocked into him, stealing the air from his lungs. Still, a breath of relief came to him. He scrubbed along the dragon’s ancient, cracked scales with both hands. He heard a thumping that must’ve been a leg or tail patting the ground.

His fingers found the underside of a plate and the dragon, seeming pleased, bumped him hard enough to knock him on his back. It took one tiny step forward (still enough to make the ground shake), its tongue darting out just a peek to give his chestplate a test-lick. Like a too-excited hound, only  _ this  _ pet moved nearer to a glacial pace. 

“...You alright?” Varric called, huddled together with the others at a distance of about fifteen strides. Not far enough, but at least it  _ felt  _ safer.

“Fine,” Lavellan replied in a grunt, ripping one arm free of the flowering weeds threatening to restrain him. He tore the winding stems from his other arm and gave the dragon’s snout a little push so he could stand. Already, he felt more secure. The beast was more interested in getting scratches than a meal; though that begged the question: what  _ did  _ it eat?

_ Speak,  _ the Well demanded, so Lavellan stuttered for words. The dragon was working to give him another lick from its tongue, about the size of a heater shield, so he moved aside to stand parallel to its enormous eye. It flickered back and forth, focused on him, and he placed one gloved hand on the uneven, scaled surface of its skin. _It knows us._

The Well’s words worked up in whispers, unintelligible elvish voices overlapping one another until it was nothing but noise. Still, something changed in the dragon’s eyes. Though at first it had seemed to be like any animal--operating on instinct--there was a wisdom in its eyes, it seemed. As if it heard the Well and it understood.

“Will you… help me?” He asked aloud. It gave one long, slow blink.  _ It knows,  _ the voice of the Well assured him between murmurs.  _ It will fight. Once.  _ The dragon, raising up once more, seemed to give a grave nod. Or perhaps Lavellan was starting to imagine things. Then, after a moment, it turned, stalking back to where it had awakened from. It curled itself at the base of the shrine, tucking its wings in close, and returned to sleep.

“So?” Bull asked, breaking the awed silence.

“Boys,” Lavellan said, taking a few tentative steps back before he turned to face the party fully. There was a small gap in the treeline, back where they’d come from. “We’ve got our dragon.”


	46. Dreaming, Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tricked ya! it's a surprise monday update. This is the second short chapter.
> 
> Btw, I LOVE a Lavellan who does shit like point out cool birds and plants and bugs like an excited 5th grader who JUST learned all this neat stuff in class about, like, butterflies and how they'll drink blood
> 
> hey also wouldn't it be crazy if your character could just straight up die in the final battle like they do in Origins??? food for thought. Stakes.

Dorian laid on his back, one arm hanging lazily across his stomach. His other stayed lost in Lavellan’s hair, where he was a weight upon the left side of his chest. One of Lavellan’s hands ghosted, fingers barely touching, in repetitive motions along the line of his abdomen. It was still damp with perspiration.

Tucked stubbornly atop their tangled legs, Tara squirmed to lay a little higher, looking for some attention. To Dorian’s chagrin, the hand tracing lazy lines against his skin disappeared.

“I don’t know why you insist upon keeping her here,” Dorian voiced in a lazy sigh, “it’s not like she’s at a loss for people to sleep next to.” Lavellan hummed against his chest.

“She goes where she likes,” he replied, “and she likes us both.” He wriggled to sit up, his hand returning to slide up Dorian’s chest. It came to rest at his jaw as he leaned in, pressing a softer kiss to his lips than the hot, passion-fuelled ones that had come not minutes earlier.

“Oh, but of course, she likes _me_ better.” Dorian said, leaning up to steal another once Lavellan pulled away. It was seldom enough Lavellan had time to himself; that he chose to spend it in each other’s company was, in itself, affection enough. But he didn’t mind a few cheeky make-outs now and then.

“Of _course,”_ he repeated, “who wouldn’t?” Lavellan laid back down against his chest, dark eyes now focused up on his face. That small, carefree smile was back--if only for the moment--and Dorian was determined to memorize it while he still had the chance. Lavellan’s hand laid at his collarbone and his fingers traced nonsense patterns into the skin once more.

“Do you think we ever would’ve met if I wasn’t at a Conclave?” Lavellan asked, cheek pressed against Dorian’s skin. He could feel each slow brush of his eyelashes. The mage studied the ceiling for a moment, pensive, and let out a bittersweet laugh.

“Probably not. Still,” he brought his free hand up to tuck behind his head, “you never know. Maybe I’d run off to Antiva, given the chance.” Lavellan let out a laugh that shook through them both.

“No you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I might’ve gone to Tevinter. I was going to, you know, before I got the letter to come south. Would’ve stayed at my job.”

“I can see it now. You, my knight in shining armor come to save me from a life of silent torture and… political dealings, probably.”

“All gussied up in my finest two-copper tunic,” Lavellan drawled, “ready to sweep you off your feet.”

“You’d still manage it somehow, I’m sure.”

“It’s the accent," Lavellan murmured, arms shifting to wind loosely around the other man, "but can you imagine _me_ in Tevinter? Maker, that’d be something.”

“You’d like the clothing, I think. It’s extravagant in all the worst ways.” Dorian’s hand slid down to run over Lavellan’s back. He skipped over those odd little cuts that now spread up towards his shoulder blade, though no measure of feigned ignorance would keep the dread from roiling.

“Something to be said for that,” Lavellan said, voice vibrating through his chest. “I do _love_ a bit of melodrama. Oh!--” He shifted, now propping himself up to look at Dorian proper. “Here’s an idea: a life of _crime.”_

“Is this a proposal?”

“No--just imagine it. Me, as the dashing, morally-grey leader to a rag-tag group of misfits.”

“That doesn’t count; that’s what you’re doing right now.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Lavellan murmured, “it’d be like one of your smutty romance novels. Strapping criminal kidnaps the love interest, turns out to be an alright guy, happy ever after.”

“Ah, yes, the perfect love story. Though, if we’re listing off unlikely scenarios, perhaps a chance meeting would suit. My college days were full of the sort.” Lavellan let out a delighted laugh.

“That’s an idea. Did you have the mustache when you were in college?”

“Not like this, no.” Lavellan’s face wound up with his deliberation.

“A tavern, then, maybe. We meet over a game of strip-Wicked Grace.” Dorian let out a laugh at his expense.

“As if you’d _charm_ me through that. You can be such a sore loser; you’d be the worst person to play against.” Lavellan let out a surprised, offended sound.

“Wh--I’m _not.”_ He insisted, drawing back to cross his arms over his chest. Dorian didn’t say anything, but his long look of doubt was enough to earn another grumbled noise.

“Expecting me to be a _good_ loser,” he huffed, slipping out of bed. _“Ridiculous._ What’s that even mean?” 

“What, it didn’t bother you _that_ much, did it?” Lavellan, plucking up a pair of trousers to hop--gracelessly--into, glanced back. His face was still wound up in a childish frown at first, but at the question, it all but disappeared.

“Hm? No.” He replied, letting out a surprised laugh. “I’ll be right back, dove, don’t look too chapped.” He strode towards the tall archer’s slit which sat carved into the stone, acting as the only window in the drafty bedroom.

Dorian watched him for a moment, feeling unusually tender. When the dog wriggled up to take over Lavellan’s place, he only pet her for a brief few moments before he went back to his lazing. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the bed grow a little colder. A short whistle drew his attention.

“You look nice from every angle. How’d you manage that?” Lavellan chortled, now facing him. He had his two hands cupped together strangely--as if trapping something--and it made the compliment fall a little flatter.

“What’ve you got?” Dorian asked instead, tone full with expectant dread.

“Caught a ladybug.” The mage propped himself up on his elbows and looked him over. He sank with a small sigh.

“I know what you’re about to do, and I’d just like to ask you to think about the consequences.” He replied, “if I find it somewhere in here, all dry and shriveled? _You’ll_ be the one paying for it.”

“Come on, Dorian, play up the excitement a little! We never have ladybugs around here. I think it’s lucky.” He took a step closer to the bed and Dorian gave a swift shake of his head.

“You can keep all that luck, thank you. You’re the one who needs it.” He replied, dismissive. He leaned away from Lavellan’s approach very slightly. The elf let out a long sigh and moved back to the window to release the unseen insect.

“Don’t know what you’re so wound up about,” he said, brushing his hands off, “you’ve not even got drapes. Bugs get in all the time.”

“Yes, but I don’t _choose_ to let them in here. Least of all the lucky ones.”

“Fine, fine,” Lavellan trailed back to the bed, “so long as one of us’s got it, I’m sure we’ll do alright.” He moved around, sitting on the other side so as to not disturb the lazing dog.


	47. A Goodbye Come Too Quickly to Bitter Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> haha whoops

Lavellan snatched up his scabbard from where it lay next to his equipment chest. He skipped up the stairs two at the time, jacket only halfway on. He pushed through to the main hall, which already swam with people. It was like an ant hive on fire. He weaved between soldiers and servants, a hand catching his arm not halfway through.

“Whatever troops we can spare have been sent, my Lord,” Josephine informed, walking with swift strides alongside her Inquisitor. Her fingers dug into the leather material of his vambrace, though she tried to keep her expression comparatively less frantic. “They should arrive within an hour at most. Scouts may already be there.”

“How are our fortifications?” Lavellan asked, pushing through the crowds. Refugees were being led in clusters towards the main building by grim-faced soldiers and a few noblemen alike. He put out one arm to more easily slip through the crowds, Josephine still clinging to his other.

“Cullen will remain here with a portion of our soldiers. They’re barricading and readying trebuchets as we speak.”

“And the Clan?”

“Already within the walls, my Lord. We’ve checked multiple times.” He let out a stunted breath of relief, though fear still pulsed in his chest.

They darted down the steps, the wave of people moving against them tenfold. They converged with the bottle-necked crowd within the courtyard as soon as they reached the bottom of the steps. Lavellan, keeping his chin up, fought to put on a brave face as they slipped through--if only as a comfort to the watching, panic-stricken refugees--though also in the hopes that it’d carry him through.

They reached the gate, where most of the extended party already idled on horseback. A few soldiers fought to lead the remaining horses--some of which were startled by the weaving crowds of people--up towards them. A few of the Chargers stood to help, keeping any mount from trampling a stablehand. Iron Bull stood at the edge of the clustered party, keeping his eye out and on the crowd. As the Inquisitor and his diplomat emerged from the winding mass of people, he gave a wave. There was a small child seated on his shoulders, one pudgy hand gripping a horn. They also waved.

“Are we missing anyone?” Lavellan asked, now within earshot.

“Cassandra’s tied up with some soldiers and Blackwall’s with the horses.” Bull replied. Lavellan gestured to the child, who was scanning the crowds. “We’re keeping a lookout for mom.” He supplied.

“I’m here!” The Seeker called, pushing through the crowd. Spotting the Inquisitor, she sidled up to his opposite side. “Bedrolls and blankets are being collected. I have others finding food.” Lavellan gave a grateful nod. A few strides away, a fight started. Two young men--one backed by a woman cradling a child--wrestled for a bag. Cassandra broke away with a hissed grumble to separate them. It was then that Lavellan leaned towards the Diplomat, speaking low amongst the frightened clamour.

“Josephine,” he addressed, “I need you to find Maryden. Whatever entertainment you can get. Keep the people occupied.” He ordered. Nodding gravely, she rushed back through the crowds, the dim shades of mustard gold and indigo quickly swallowed up by the writhing mass.

“Your Worship!” Someone called. Lavellan glanced around. Krem, leading a broad, sleek horse approached. He held out the reins in one hand. “Your horse, ser. Got you the nicest one.”

“Good man, Krem,” Lavellan replied, giving him a slap on the arm. They both managed a small smile.

“Been an honour working under you, Your Worship.” Lavellan strapped his scabbard to the saddlebag and kicked himself up, letting out as strong a laugh as he could manage. It wasn’t much.

“Don’t sound so grim, lethallin. I’m coming back.”

“Whatever you say, ser,” Krem raised two defensive hands, turning towards the stables. “I’ll be the first one raising a glass when you do!”

Cassandra came trailing back and, once her sparse equipment was secure, she mounted her horse beside him. Silently, she fiddled with her reins.

“Was it much trouble?” Lavellan asked, earning her startled attention.

“What?--” He gestured towards one of the men she’d separated, who now kicked rocks with a stubborn frown. “--oh. No. They’re frightened, that is all. It will be a blessing once this is finally over with.”

“You can say that again.” Lavellan muttered. Bull, now free of his living adornment, saddled up. Lavellan took point.

The landscape passed in a haze. Adrenaline and fear kept the party quiet as they rode through the mountains. Lavellan and Cassandra took turns leading the way down winding, narrow paths and along sheer cliffside. Lavellan would send occasional glances back at the grim-looking party and then, after a few times, took up the paranoid habit of head counting. The number never changed, but it helped to assuage his nerves every once in a while.

Dorian kept closer to the front of the procession than he normally would. Lavellan might’ve invited him to ride together, if it wouldn’t have bogged down the horse more than they could afford. He thumbed over the familiar carving in his pocket. Coincidence, or perhaps providence, that he’d had it in his grasp when the Breach returned. It meant his second time facing Corypheus could be with the token in hand.

Without the normal cheerful banter to distract him, Lavellan was left to his thoughts. To his regrets. He realized, though he'd be perfectly happy not to, that he’d been a foolish man. Him, with a limited life expectancy even before this stunning (and possibly careless) act of heroism, so greedily soaking up the care and attention of someone who deserved more. Someone who deserved a partner who would-- _could--_ grow old. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not really.

What he _did_ regret was not being _more_ foolish. Taking more time to himself, as he’d so often been told to do. When was the last time he’d spent time with his friends? The game of Wicked Grace, weeks ago now. The night previous--his last night, to be assumed--wasn’t lonely, at the very least. But still, a bittersweet warmth ached in his chest. His sullen, half-tender expression made him grateful for the single-file line they now rode in through an especially narrow path.

If the time was afforded to him, he _would_ be foolish. There were so many things to do--to _say--_ that he hadn’t. What use was a bleeding heart to a dead man? What use was an earnest confession to a dead man?

He couldn’t rid himself of them yet. Even if he stole a moment with Dorian to say goodbye, he couldn’t tell him. Not outright. Even _if_ he was less of a coward--somehow summoned the strength to say those words he’d only ever been able to communicate through touch--he’d still not do it. It was too cruel. Too unkind: to say _I love you,_ to make a promise of some kind of future, and then never come back. If there was one thing he could do without regret it would be to lie by omission one last time. Those other twenty-eight years had only been practice.

The Breach seemed more looming and massive than the last time. They were still another half-hour from it but it stayed plainly visible. It burned in the sky like a second sun; grotesque, writhing and casting a sickly green light over everything. They emerged into snow-dusted forest just barely on the edge of the temple grounds. The animals seemed to hide themselves from this new light.

The road was still lined with the occasional set of charred remains from the year-old catastrophe. Arms or boots stuck up out of the snow at odd angles, frozen into place on either side of the ruined road. Mage’s staffs and Templar’s shields were cast aside, most of them ashen or in pieces, littering the unused roadway like artful bits of rubbish. There were fully-decomposed bodies--like shrouds; ribcages concave and too-frozen flesh now sallow beneath their now ill-fitting clothing--which had been picked clean of meat and shiny trinkets. Animals had had their way with any body too exposed, stealing away with whatever they could to make nests and decorate burrows. A crow called, hidden, from one of the trees.

It had been just over a year since the Conclave. Since the Anchor--which now glowed to life--was put upon him. Seeing the carnage reminded him the memories, both true and fabricated, that he'd seen at night. He would crawl on hands and knees over uneven ground. He searched for someone-- _anyone--_ to help, but he only found the expressions of those burnt by the explosion. Maw gaping. burgundy flesh charred and pulled taut over bone, letting out a silent scream. Lavellan rubbed the memory from his eyes with some desperation.

Cassandra called for the procession to stop just as a figure rustled in the trees. They weren't even five minutes from the temple, now. There was a shout, and then the figure came tumbling out onto the road. His sword landed with a clatter just out of reach. A familiar hound followed. Before Lavellan could speak, a Terror was scrambling out of the bush after them. The quickest-drawn arrow and a shard of ice stuck it to the thick trunk of a tree. It dissolved to nothing.

Lavellan, dismounting, reared up for a lecture. The young man who had stumbled out in front of them sat up, scrambling, and climbed to his feet. His eyes were wide when they fell upon the Inquisitor. Tara gave a gleeful bark.

“Thanks for the help,” Yevan started, sheathing his sword at his hip. “Came here fast as I could. Good target practice, long as I can keep my footing.”

“You’re not coming in.” Syrillon bit. His brother’s expression warped to something indignant.

“Not gonna work on me.” Yevan replied, terse. He gripped at Syrillon’s arm, “I haven’t seen you in ten _fucking_ years. Don’t tell me I can’t back you up one last time.” Syrillon pushed him off, still scowling, but it was softening.

“You’d better not do anything stupid.” Lavellan ordered. “You’ve seen the Breach, right? What’s it look like out there?” Yevan let out a sigh of resignation but replied like any other scout.

“You’ve got about twenty men. Can’t see any of those, uh… what’d’ya-call-ems? Rifts? But there’s demons aplenty. Hundreds, but they trickle in slow. Enough to hold us back from getting to the big guy. Don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s holed up somewhere in the rubble. Probably something evil, right?”

“Perhaps we should dismount.” Cassandra suggested. Lavellan gave a nod for approval and then looked back to his brother, clapping one hand on his arm.

“Stay with our horses for now. We’ll send a soldier back to take your place when we get in.” Yevan looking displeased but he didn’t say anything. Beside them, the extended party dismounted and idled together. Sera counted arrows, Bull readied his axe, Varric checked his caltrops.

“Thank you.” Syrillon said, quieter this time, “I know I haven’t been the best brother, but I’m happy to have been one at all.” Yevan rolled his eyes and bit hard at his lip.

“Oh, shut it,” he hissed, throwing an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a forceful hug. “You’re the best piece-of-shit little brother I could ask for. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.” Syrillon wound his arms tight around his midsection, squeezing his eyes shut. It didn't feel real. None of it felt real.

“You gotta make sure the stories don’t get too out of control, alright? Keep my memory humble.” He instructed. Yevan let out a bitter laugh.

“I’ll tell ‘em all about the time you broke your arm tryin’ to give me a charlie horse. That’ll ruin the funeral rite.” They drew away. Yevan laid one gloved hand at his brother’s cheek, eyes dewey.

“No matter what happens, you’ll always be my favourite brother.” He said in a broken laugh. “The best.”

“The best.” Syrillon repeated, managing a bittersweet smile. He glanced over his shoulder towards the awaiting party. He cleared his throat. “Don’t get the horses killed or I’ll come back and haunt you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yevan chuckled, pushing him away. “Go on, then, you lot. Go save the world. I’ll just be here.” Syrillon’s hand squeezed on his shoulder. Then, he pulled away.

It was with some surprise, Syrillon realized, his brother looked like the spitting image of their father. Like the elven knights they’d spend nights dreaming of and days training to be when they were still hopeful enough to believe it. Yevan smelled like old sweat and dog, his hair was an unruly mess from being cut so short, his armor was faded and grubby. He wore their father’s tattered cloak and had the vambraces to match. Still, he would march on--his trusty wolf-companion at his side--and follow the battle through. Even until the last.

-

The Breach was bigger than before. The light swaddling of demons was larger than before, too. While Lavellan’s first--second?--visit to the Breach had the Pride demon and a few occasional shades, _this_ was an entirely different bucket of worms. _This_ was wave after brutal wave of seemingly unending Terrors, Despairs and, indeed, Pride. They were scattered about in clusters, ever oncoming, and those twenty-something soldiers were more than eager to switch out while they still had the chance.

Those lonely demons still spilling out of Maker-knew-where were probably the remnants of what Corypheus had to employ. The bodies of a few dozen Venatori and Grey Wardens littered the ground--long-since killed--but it was nowhere near the amount expected. Lavellan was thankful, with some hindsight, that Cullen had secured Skyhold for an attack before they’d left and took all their specialists with.

There was a brief, nearly peaceful lull where there were only enough demons for a small proportion of the party to be occupied. It was then that one of them caught a glimpse of their greatest target.

“There!” Solas shouted. By the time Lavellan looked, he could see Corypheus emerging from what remained of the Temple’s rubble. He moved towards a higher place, the orb in hand.

Lavellan was running out of time. Oh, Creators--oh, _Maker--_ it was time. He swallowed down the fear rushing into his throat like bile and, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dorian. He kept back, striking up barriers for Vivienne as she put her Fade-formed blade to work. _This is it,_ he told himself as he forced a bit of calm, taking the chance to run to his side. _This is why I’ll do it. For him._

“Dorian,” he called, one hand already going out to clasp his arm, “I need to give you something.” It was rushed and it was desperate but it was all he had. He snatched up one of the mage’s hands and, after searching his pocket for a moment, he laid the wolf totem in his palm. Lavellan pressed his fingers around it, holding the hand closed with both of his. Then, he pressed a kiss to his lips. When he pulled away, he'd already warped Dorian's brow into a knot.

“No.” He said, a broken whisper. _“No._ Take me with you.”

“I’m sorry, dove,” Lavellan replied, giving his hand a squeeze between his own. “I’m sorry.” He repeated. It was all he could manage. He pulled away and turned, quickly, on his heel to collect his limited party.

Dorian, watching him leave, was frozen in place. Lavellan had already been whisked up in his final battle by the time he looked down to see the wolf in his palm. He bit back a bitter sob.


	48. Unbidden but Imperative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the climax, can I get you any refreshments?
> 
> AKA: why was Corypheus such a fucking disappointment

Corypheus’s poor attempt at escape led to the party of four being sequestered together on a large chunk of floating rock some fifteen feet in the air. It continued to rise, steadily, as a number of lowly demons crawled up the sides of the rock to keep them busy. Corypheus stayed at a taller piece of rubble across the ruined ground from them, gloating and disrupting their battle in whatever meager attempt he could. He must’ve been running out of power, then. Good.

Varric and Solas would take turns launching whatever they could at the ancient magister whenever he showed his face. A bolt here, a fireball there. It helped to tune out his petty insults. Lavellan was starting to wonder if he really _was_ that weak, or if this was some new, poorly-formulated attempt at a psychological attack. Either way, it wasn’t doing much good. His dragon circled menacingly overhead, but it never swooped low enough to do damage. Corypheus never incited it to attack.

Though the Great Evil himself didn’t do much to contribute to the fight, his throngs of minions certainly did. Pride would have a hard time finding their way up to the floating bit of rubble, but there were plenty of Terrors and Despairs coming through. It was not the greatest challenge they’d faced, to be sure, and that was what made the seed of worry sprout in his gut.

Lavellan could feel the charm around his neck starting to burn. Solas was too embroiled in his own battle for self-preservation to give barriers to everyone on a reliable basis. So, it fell to the other elf, whose barriers were not quite as strong or as easy to cast as a wave of his hand. He kept a few choice hits off of himself and Cassandra, but it was starting to wear on him. Perhaps _that_ was the aim; to whittle them down with eons of toil just so that he could squash them with the least possible effort.

There was a break in the influx of demons, thus Lavellan called to move forward. Perhaps if they could rush him? Drive him out of his hiding spot and get him on his feet. It would save them energy and it would force Corypheus to think quickly. Perhaps they would earn a bit of ground.

A sharp cascade of ice just barely missed the crown of his head as he led the charge in a sprint, clustered with the others, towards the half-collapsed parapet. Corypheus--like a rat--found his way out of his hiding spot and moved onto higher ground. The stronger blue sheen of a barrier was cast around Lavellan as he led the climb up the precarious, barely-there stairwell. Demons closed in at their back. The off-green pool of light which heralded the arrival of a Terror appeared in front of them. Instinctively, Lavellan ducked back at the same time as Cassandra lunged forward, shield raised. It was just wide enough to fit between destroyed walls.

“We need some help back here!” Varric called from the flank. The shrieking of something sharp against smooth metal made Cassandra stumble back a step at the front, squishing them together in the narrow stairwell. Solas sealed them in at the other end with an ice wall, giving them some temporary protection. Cassandra gave the Terror a good bash, though it was an uphill (upstairs?) battle. Lavellan stayed ducked behind her as he worked up another barrier just as Solas’s fizzled out.

She persisted through another hard knock to her shield. He stayed crouched, working a ball of flame between his hands. Then, a small nod shared, she ducked out of the way. He leapt up, raining fire upon the Terror in the short gap between its attacks. Damn these odd landscapes. There was no room to swing his blade, so he was pushed to overclock his mana. The Terror crumbled to nothing and they took up their pace once again, this time a bit swifter. They reached a new plateau and Solas froze the entrance over at their back.

The charm burned itself against the flesh of his sternum. It was hardly an ache compared to the Anchor, which protested in the presence of the elven orb Corypheus now wielded with a glow. He summoned a rain of rock down onto the cluttered plateau, his voice booming.

 _“Rattus!”_ He addressed. “You are nothing--less than nothing--yet you wish to end that which has already begun!” The party broke to find cover behind whatever rubble they could. Lavellan peeked out, Solas crouched at his right. Total ruler this, withered Tevinter that; the same tired drivel as Haven. There was a large piece of rubble a number of strides ahead. It was far closer to Corypheus than they already were. Perhaps they could get a good shot--

“Solas, can you put up ice walls for cover?” Lavellan asked, inching out of his spot. Upon an affirmative, he gauged the distance. About… twenty strides? Or maybe more like fifteen. If he could make it before Corypheus was done talking out of his ass, he’d be in the clear. He took in a few shallow breaths, adrenaline tingling in his fingers. Now.

The stopping was rough, but he didn’t get hit by anything. His boots slid, which meant his knees scraped, and then finally he knocked into the rubble with his shoulder. But he’d made it. He sent a clumsy thumbs-up back to the party and gestured for them to join him. In the brief interim, he assessed his knees. His trousers were worn thin. Down to nothing in some spots. The skin of his knees ached from inside them; likely a simple scrape. He’d save what was left of his mana for something bigger.

Varric knocked into the rubble beside him with a grunt. He shifted Bianca in his grip and sent a glance over the top of the rubble. They couldn’t see Corypheus from behind it, but he was still going on. It sounded like they were running out of time. Cassandra slid to a rough stop at his other side.

“What’s the plan?” Varric asked, loading another few bolts.

“Working on it.” He replied. Finally, Solas came to join, so they huddled up.

“He’ll run out of places to go eventually, won’t he?” Solas asked, “we could continue to chase him.”

“Better than anything I was coming up with.” Lavellan admitted. Varric peeked around the side of their cover.

“I spy another set of stairs,” he chimed, an exhausted smile in his voice.

“I’ll go first.” Cassandra volunteered, hoisting up her shield. In much of a similar way, she ducked out, assessed the battlefield, and then sprinted forth. She kept her shield up to guard her left side, which faced their target. Varric followed. Solas came third, using another ice wall for protection. Lavellan came up last. He stayed at the flank as they moved up the stairs to another half-collapsed plateau.

Here, it seemed, there wasn’t much of a place to run to. There was an odd platform Corypheus had moved back towards, standing his ground. Tall shards of red lyrium jutted out, too frail to be cover and too loud to be of any other use. He launched something at them, so the party broke apart once more.

Corypheus was cornered, but he wasn’t yet letting up. It became clear just _why_ he stood his ground once the party recovered and, given one spell, the rocky floor started to crack. A thick, vein-like fracture ran along the ground right where the party stood. With it, Corypheus sequestered himself from them. The rock started to fall away as the fracture cut down to the core of their uneven platform.

Lavellan did it without thinking. The ground beneath them shook as the disconnected pieces broke out of its floating spell. Cassandra grabbed Varric by his collar--the two of them a stride apart--and held tight to him as she dashed back the way they’d come. The ground wasn’t crumbling there, at least. Solas was not so lucky.

He was closer to the edge, alongside Lavellan, so there wasn’t a place he could step that wouldn’t be destroyed underfoot. Lavellan didn’t think it through--he moved, purely on instinct--to grab a fistful of the mage’s clothing. He yanked as hard as he could and then forced him bodily--partway to shoving him--onto the same surface as the other half of the party. The mage let out a surprised sound as he was tossed carelessly to safety. Lavellan’s time, however, had run out. The ground crumbled beneath his feet and, despite any effort, he fell.

It seemed slow, at first. Then, the large chunk of rock shrank to a pebble and the wind whipped past his ears as he plummeted fast through the smoggy air. He turned and turned until he didn’t know which hunk of rock he’d come from and which one he was careening towards. The Well spoke in a clamour of voices in his ear, drowned out by the sound of his descent. The dizzying force of gravity pulled the air from his lungs and he realized, with some measure of far-away despair, that _this_ was the end he’d been fearing. His eyes started to close on their own accord.

Within a moment, he could breathe again. He’d landed on _something,_ but his mind was too discombobulated to tell what it was. It seemed to move--not so much beneath him as around him--and the wind continued to card through his hair. It was smoother, this time. Less like he was plummeting and more like he was gliding. Distantly, he heard the call of a dragon.

He startled himself back to reality and sat up, though he nearly knocked himself over in the process. He was in a cage of flesh and bone, breaths coming as heaved gasps. Long, thick claws kept him herded into a scaled palm. He looked out a gap beneath him, seeing the ground pass below, hundreds of feet away. There was that call again; raspy, old--almost corrupt, like a sick animal--and then a pair of black wings passed some twenty feet below. Too close for such a giant being. From his limited view, he couldn’t see Corypheus or the rock he’d once been standing upon. He couldn’t see the party, either.

He laid his gloved palm against the dragon’s uneven scales. The Well came back in whispers. He could make out one word in the overlapping voices: _land._ The dragon’s call reverberated around him, almost deafening when he was tucked in closer to its belly. Then, he spotted a familiar ruin beneath them. It was far-away from the dragon’s line of ascent, but it seemed to grow closer, now. They circled it; Corypheus’s dragon was a threatening gleam of smooth black and red in what remained of the light that hadn’t been blotted out by clouds.

It was with some measure of dread that he saw what remained of the platform the party had been upon: dust and smog cleared in a large cloud, though the ruined spires cut out through it. It had descended. There was no telling if--or how--any of them survived. But still Corypheus’s chunk of rock remained. He was a fleshy red and pink dot. Even from the distance, the greenish orb called out and The Anchor took its cue to begin aching. Lavellan swallowed his dread and turned instead to hate. He wrestled his hand under his collar and grabbed at the charm, still warm in his palm, and wrestled it off. He wound it in a knot around the hilt of his sword for safe-keeping. There would be no holding back for Corypheus.

As soon as Lavellan could make out the rough shape of the ground, he wriggled himself out of the dragon’s grip. He hung from one claw and then, given a brief count, dropped down. It was a bit of a fall, followed by a rough tumble. Barely-there bruises, thanks to the dizzying amount of adrenaline rushing through him. The dragon called overhead as it pulled up and away once more. Corypheus’s dragon let out a similar sound as it swept within a few feet overhead.

“Hey!” Lavellan called, stalking forward across uneasy terrain to where the magister toiled over the glowing orb. He glanced up, red lyrium-imbued face warping into a sneer.

“Yeah, that’s right. Eyes on me, you ugly worm.” His one large hand still clutched at the orb, but he was distracted. It would do. The Breach thundered threateningly above them. He was higher up than before, and the acrid stink of the Fade was far stronger, now. With luck, he'd bother the ancient evil enough to preoccupy him with trying to squash him once more. “I had to listen to you gloating for _so_ long. If you spent half as long coming up with a plan as you do writing speeches, you might’ve won by now.” _That_ got him a bit more heated.

The clouds, already dark, started to collect overhead. Every deep, aching breath made his hands start to sting a bit more. His left lashed out in sparks of green, as if realizing that the leashing of Solas's charm was now absent. Like stretching a sleepy muscle, his mana extended itself. The clouds started to blot out the light of the Breach. Then, distantly, they started to rumble. Sheet lightning cast the small rock in a few flashes of white.

Lavellan, pushing the barely-intentional spell, funneled a bit more anger into it. A zap of electricity jolted his arm with the effort, leaving the limb tingling and numb. They were a hundred-something feet in the air with no-one around to be risked. Now, for what was perhaps the last time, he could afford to let loose.

They were a few strides apart, now. Corypheus held his ground, at a loss for lyrium to toss in his direction. He sagged, clearly expending most of his energy to finish what he'd started. Lavellan took one step. _For_ _Haven._ The Anchor lashed out just as his spell did; lighting crackling along the ground beneath his feet. As if it was being coaxed out by the former to spill onto the ruined ground. _If I die here, it will be for the mages, for the Templars, and for the Wardens._

"You took _everything_ from me," Lavellan hissed. Another small, uncontrolled crack of lightning escaped his hand. _For Hawke._ The Anchor lashed out once more, calling out to the orb in the magister’s hand. It felt as if it would cleave him entirely in two. He took another step. _For the Clan._ The heat seared up along his arms. Into his bones. He raised his hand.

A great lash of lightning touched down. Then another. Then another. They arced from him, from the clouds, along the ground. They struck the magister from a hundred places, knocking the orb from his hand and wearing him down bit by bit. The lightning paused. Corypheus barely stood. Lavellan struck him again. _For Thedas._

The lightning spread through him, once again searing his ring of protection into his skin. The thunder was deafening in his ears. The lightning died out and Corypheus was left crumbled; weak and pitiful, a shroud of the ancient thing he was and a mite compared to the god he believed himself to be. Lavellan stepped forward and one bony hand reached out for him. He only needed to kick it away. The magister’s mouth gaped, all gums and teeth, looking for words he had no voice for.

A flapping of wings grew louder and louder until the great beast of a dragon landed, clinging halfway to the sides of the rock. The limp body of the smaller black dragon hung from its mouth, held tight by the jaws clenched around its neck. It gave the dead dragon a rowdy shake and then took off once more.

The Anchor lashed out, seeming to drip with green light, and Lavellan gripped the magister by a part of the massive column of his throat. The skin seemed to shrivel away to ash beneath it. Corypheus let out a broken wail as the elf squeezed the flesh in his grip, allowing the mark to rot it away to nothing but Fade-borne greenish viscera. Bit by bit, the Anchor consumed him until Lavellan was left holding nothing at all. Corypheus, eaten up by the Fade, left behind only ash.

Lavellan let out a few ragged breaths and, raising his hand up towards the Breach, fought to pull it closed. His legs wobbled weakly beneath him. The Anchor thudded inside his skull at the same pace as his heart. Like a clawed hand, its pain climbed up through his neck and sunk into his forehead.

The Breach was partway sealed when the ground beneath him remembered to fall. Still, he focused on the Breach. Inch by inch, it protested. Wind sailed past his ears. The Well was silent--or, perhaps he was tuning it out--and he forced himself to keep awake for only the next few moments. The Breach shot closed and Lavellan, finally freed, allowed himself to fall.

He was cognizant enough to put up a barrier. It hurt, like overworking a strained muscle, as his spell pulled more and more mana than it should have. He realized he was laying along the ground, now, though he didn’t know when it had happened. There was a loud crashing around him as the world fell back into place. His mana drained clean, he let the spell fizzle out. Something pinned him in place, keeping him from sitting up. He could barely manage a groan.

-

There weren’t many soldiers who came to join them, but there _were_ mages. All of them gawked, wide-eyed, up at the Breach as they arrived in too-full wagons with what remained of the horses. With some small direction, they were put to work eliminating what remained of the demons. There wasn’t much; given it was the extended party’s only way to anxiously pass time.

Dorian, keeping mostly to himself, had eviscerated more than his fair share. Sera was a close second. She kept anxiously rattling off what-ifs that quickly grated too on his nerves for him to stand around listening without saying something unbecoming. He’d quietly grumbled his way over to the eastern side of the messy rubble, distracting himself by keeping it clear of fade-borne monstrosity for as long as he could. The aching upset in his chest kept him going longer than he might’ve otherwise. Blackwall and the Iron Bull would draw close, sometimes, to give him a bare check-up. To make sure he was still standing.

Their concern was all too decent and that, too, started to give him a frustrated itch. So _what_ if he cared more for Lavellan that he ought to have? So _what_ if they were… _whatever_ they were? He didn’t own this tragedy. He didn’t _own_ the sickly feeling of worry that came with watching Lavellan march off into battle, as he so often did, for everyone else’s benefit. He didn’t own the fear that perhaps that would be the last time he’d lay eyes upon that awful, wonderful man. Where did they get off, acting as if his pain was worth any more than theirs? Why couldn’t they leave him to hurt?

It was nearly a relief when things went to shit. It was a greater distraction, at the very least, when Vivienne and Dorian were (unfortunately) tasked with ordering around the remaining mages. Their mission? Bringing down a large, once-floating chunk of rock in a relatively safe manner. It took some trying, but it didn’t plummet into the Earth and kill them all, at least, so it was good enough. Then, _imagine_ their surprise when three of the Inquisitor’s party members emerged from that rubble, raising the stakes in hindsight.

They were shuffling in the rubble, at first. A few of the mages thought it could have been demons, so Dorian and Vivienne moved quite attentively to look into it. It was three banged-up but alive party members, each of them cradling a different body part. It was a bit anticlimactic, given they had fifty-something capable healers with nothing to do now that they weren’t temporarily in the danger zone. Dragons circled menacingly overhead, but neither had touched down. Iron Bull seemed to wilt at the very fact.

“You’re alive!” Dorian greeted, tied for first with Vivienne for recognizing the party of three and providing an unsuitably casual greeting. He’d sounded more surprised than he meant to.

“Barely.” Varric grunted, rubbing a bit of grime from his face.

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” Solas asked, leaning on his staff for some support.

“He was with you,” Vivienne reminded, face wound up in a sneer to cover the wave of worry the question brought. “Is it so easy to lose track of him?”

“He fell,” the elf provided, “before we did. You have not found him?” Cassandra stayed silent, brow knit in something guilty and pensive. Dorian, wide-eyed and near exasperation, broke away. A search party would be in order, then. Sooner rather than later, hopefully, as the Breach grew louder and more ominous above them. Blackwall could help. Iron Bull, too. Perhaps Cole would be a benefit? _Fuck,_ this really was the end of the world--

“Look!” Someone in the clustered crowd called. The collective gaze turned towards the sky, to where the Breach was starting to be blotted out. It was a tiny, localized lightning storm right above the only boulder left suspended in the air. Curious. Dorian slowed to a stop, risking a tiny spark of hope.

The worn-down party of three was escorted to one of the wagons, which would be acting as a healer’s tent for the time being. Dorian hadn’t noticed Vivienne at his side until she spoke, a bit quieter than her usual. More vulnerable.

“Do you think it’s him?” She asked.

“Yes,” _it has to be,_ he replied, eyes still on the thick black clouds. The dragons warred overhead, swirling through the sky and coasting up and down in chaotic moves. “I think I prefer that to the alternative, anyway,” he added, far-away with his distraction. He couldn’t make anything out of those blinding flashes of lightning.

“Certainly means less work for us, yes.” Vivienne said, also watching the sky. Her expression was set to something grim. If what Solas had said was true--if Lavellan had fallen--there would be no further hope for them. Precious time was running out, either for a last-ditch effort at victory or a swift retreat.

The lightning stopped and the clouds dissipated. Hope started to fizzle out along with it. _Come on,_ Dorian willed, _you’re not dead yet. You can’t be._

An arc of green light cut up into the Breach, calling it closed. He nearly let out a victorious laugh. There was an unreal groaning as the torn sky was mended back together. Any cheerful sounds passed between people on the ground were soon traded for fearful murmurs. The Breach was closing, but that big boulder was starting to fall. It was smaller than the last, but hitting the ground at full-speed would be guaranteed to kill, if not _eviscerate_ everyone in the vicinity. Not only that, but they _knew_ who was on it.

Like ants, the mages rushed forth in a panicked stream to get to work. The rock seemed to fall faster and faster and it was with some measure of fear that they banded together, channeling their Willpower a bit more desperately. It started to slow, as before, and a great deal of focus went into lowering it quite carefully.

It touched down, soothing to the ground, and a collectively exhausted sigh of relief passed over them. Dorian started to run for it even before it had stopped moving. He was followed closely by a few others; Sera, namely, who could run quite a bit quicker, and wound up out-pacing him. She leapt up onto the rocky ledge and moved without care into the rubble. Without needing to be asked, Blackwall gave a leg up to all who came next in their search party.

It took some sifting, but their Inquisitor was found. He was barely awake, barrier flickering out, one thick slab of stone pinning his leg at just above the knee. Bull, with his hands the size of spades, did most of the lifting and clearing. Lavellan was hoisted from the rubble and carried, with a great deal of teamwork, back to the ground. He was rushed quickly to one of the wagons to be looked after, Dorian alongside him the entire time.

It was on the uneasy ride back to Skyhold that Lavellan, barely conscious, groped for his hand. He squeezed Dorian’s fingers clumsily in his grip, managing a raspy _“it’s the ladybug,”_ that was swallowed up in a weak cough. Dorian carded a gentle hand through his hair and managed a wincing smile for him.


	49. Syrillon, Finally

Dorian soothed his chamber door shut with one foot, eyes on the book in his free hand. When he looked up, he spotted the elf lounging in his bath. He let out a startled noise before he could help it.

“You’re going to be the death of me.” Dorian hissed. Lavellan raised a pilfered glass of wine in toast, a lazy smile on his lips.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He replied. He had his other arm slung around the rim of the tub, all faded purples and yellows. Dorian dropped his books on his bedspread before wandering a bit closer, pulling up a stool to the side of the tub.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting? Sleeping all day, being fed medicine like bits of candy, et cetera?”

“Probably.” Dorian worked the wine out of his hand for his own consumption. “Wanted a bath. Couldn’t have one in my chambers, someone would probably throw a fit.” He had his bruise-dappled legs crossed at the ankles, propped up on the opposite side of the tub.

“So you sneak out at nightfall to do it? Oh, yes,  _ that  _ won’t make anyone alarmed at all. I can hardly think of a better option.” There was a smile to his teasing, enjoying more than he would care to admit how  _ good  _ it felt to still be able to do such a thing.

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it,” Lavellan chided, waving a dismissive finger, “besides. How am I meant to seduce you while I stink like salve? Two birds, one stone.” Dorian leaned an elbow onto the rim of the tub, smiling a bit more fondly.

“I don’t think you’ll be getting much _seduction_ done, given the way you look. You’re doing quite the impression of a plum.” He waggled a finger in the general direction of Lavellan’s bluish-purple shoulder.

“I thought you liked plums,” he replied, face wound into a teasing frown, “make up your mind.” Dorian let out a derisive hum of agreement and pressed a wine-red kiss to his lips.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, moving on. Lavellan chased the kiss weakly as he leaned away, too slow in his injury to do much about the escape. One of his bruised hands scrubbed over his shins.

“Oh, yes. Terribly. To exist is to be in pain, Dorian, I’m so hard done by. You’ll have to kiss it all better.” He whined, a childish smile playing on his lips.

“Later, dear,” he assuaged, earning a groan.

“Later’s so far away. It’s not like you’ll break me. Go on, give a li’l slap an’ tickle,” Lavellan goaded, already giggling. Dorian shook his head and drained his wine. He set the glass on the floor at the base of the tub.

“How’s the Anchor?” He asked next, leaning more fully onto the rim. At the question, Lavellan’s smile quieted. His left arm still laid limp along the edge of the tub, like usual. Subconsciously, he clenched his fist.

“Not so bad, now that you mention it,” Lavellan replied, “a bit achy, but so’s the rest of me.”

“It hasn’t been acting up?”

_ “Dorian.”  _ Lavellan reminded, putting on a small smile. “I’m alright, really. If I’m not, I’ll tell you, how about that?” A frown. “Just stop worrying. Please. Makes my stomach hurt.”

“You didn’t say your stomach was hurting.” Dorian replied, feigning a bit more worry, though it was teasing this time.

“Oh, stop that.” Lavellan huffed, running a careful hand over his abdomen. He avoided a few choice bruises along his ribs that he couldn’t remember getting. He was a bit rougher on the uninjured skin; scrubbing it clean with the pads of wet fingers. He shifted, his bruised back pulling against the smooth edge of the tub. He fought a wince. He caught the worried frown out of the corner of his eye and so he searched out Dorian’s hand. He pulled it, insistently, until it laid over his chest. A bit of bathwater started to run down his arm, soaking into his thick sleeve.

“Just bruises.” He supplied, to the concerned silence, “I’ve gotten worse. You remember the time Cullen broke my nose?”

“How could I forget?” Dorian replied, letting out a laugh.

“Not even the first time my nose’s been broken. I once fell out of an apple tree.  _ Well,  _ I didn’t entirely fall. Trousers got caught so I just smacked my face against the trunk of the thing. Didn’t even get any apples.” He leaned his head back with a groan, looking up at the worn ceiling. Dorian’s thumb ran back and forth in a line against his chest. Then, occasionally, it would trace little circles instead.

“I ever tell you about this one?” He asked, raising his leg and wiggling it for effect. It drew attention to the odd scar along the inside of his shin, where a rune stitched the skin together. “Was eight years old. Tripped on a  _ dog.” _

“Was the dog armed?” Dorian asked. He propped up his chin upon his hand, watching the elf with a fond smile.

-

Josephine’s deft, manicured fingers straightened the line of his sloping collar once more. Lavellan kept his chin tilted up, focusing more than he should have on keeping good posture even as his back ached and ached. Maker, he was nervous. He could feel it in his fingers. Why? It was only a celebration. For  _ him,  _ in fact. It would be leaps and bounds from the Winter Palace in terms of effort on his part. No secret evil cultists, no coups, no emotionally-charged snacking. He only needed to stand around, smile, and look dashing. He could do that, couldn’t he?

“Excellent.” Josephine drawled, brushing off his shoulders. She fixed a few tufts of his hair, the majority of it already held into place by whatever she’d applied some time earlier. It smelled like spiced rum… or perhaps just spices. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders and, after a sigh which seemed to release a bit of her frantic tension, she applied a warmer smile.

“I’m so glad I had to organize a banquet,” she said, “rather than the end of the world.”

“Awh, well, maybe you should’ve gotten practice.” Lavellan replied, lips sideways with his smile. “Given the luck of Thedas, I’m sure you’ll get your chance.” He ran his hands over the material of his jacket and stood there, a bit adrift, as Josephine clacked away. She came back with an offering--a dark-coloured stick, a few feet in length and made of a pleasantly-twisting wood grain. It curved at the top and--

“No.” Lavellan said quickly, pushing the gift away with a few fingers. “I’m not that old.”

“But you  _ are  _ limping.” Josephine reminded, still keeping the cane in hand.

“Am I?” He verified, wry, walking a few clumsy steps towards the door, a bit like a newborn deer. He’d just find a place to sit the whole time. Easy. Even now, he ghosted his hand along each surface he passed for just a bit more security. Josephine let out a sigh but still hung back to keep up his pace. He gripped the wall beside the stairs and soothed down one step.

“You can use it in here, at least. I won’t tell anyone.” She offered.

_ “No.”  _ Lavellan insisted. Instead, he gestured for her to take his arm. He didn’t pull too hard, should he accidentally make her topple under his weight, but just the help of an arm kept him steady with each new step down. “All the kids'll make fun of me,” he murmured, not entirely serious.

His eyes wandered to the cane in her other hand. As if it caught him staring, he glanced quickly away. A long-forgotten phantom fear ran up his spine in a shudder. He needed to scratch at his shoulder blades.

“Are you cold?” She asked quietly, feeling him shake.

“I’m always cold. It’s this damn mountain air, you know. I’m not made for mountains. I’m made for… places where you don’t need socks.” He stepped a bit wrong and his kneecap started to sting. It took a great deal of effort to not crumple on the next one. Dully, a bit of shame welled up. Wasn’t this what Dorian told him to stop doing? Lying uselessly? Coveting his pain?

Dorian wasn’t there at the moment, so perhaps it would be allowed. Just this once. Still, embarrassed guilt flushed his cheeks. They met the wooden landing and he released Josephine’s arm to instead walk with the balustrade. Spilling all the beans to her would be an unnecessary upset. She didn’t know why he persisted so stubbornly, but she didn’t need to. He could be labelled childish and leave it at that; it would be easier for her to enjoy the party that way. Yes, it would be alright. Just for the night.

He lingered at the door. He could hear the murmuring crowd through it and another spike of excited worry pierced his gut. Maybe it was just that it felt so final. The after-party meant the main event really  _ happened;  _ Corypheus was gone and his work was done. But with the work finished, it meant that the Inquisition was, as well. Wasn’t it?

Perhaps if he didn’t join the party, no one would leave.

He pressed two fingers to the side of his bridge, letting out a weakly frustrated sigh. Josephine’s hand laid gently on his shoulder, beckoning him, and he unfurled despite his fear. It wouldn’t last forever, he knew, but it didn’t stop him wishing. Josephine opened the door, so he plastered on a weak smile, willing it to come to life. The smell of honey-mead to wafted in from the main hall.

She linked arms with him once more and they strode out, his stomach still turning, to join the fray. The hall was packed tight with people, but still, they managed to condense a bit more and provide the Inquisitor and his diplomat with a place to walk. The partygoers stood aside, watching, and started to applaud. There had been a great deal of cheering when they’d first returned, evidently, but it was hard to congratulate a man who was only half-conscious.

A hand or two reached out from the crowd, giving him a jaunty pat. There were whistles and hollers and above the more polite noise of the nobles, he could hear Sera shouting something offensive. Thankfully, the path was clear to a table. Iron Bull sat at one far end of it, already pouring a drink. The crowd relaxed and the applause trailed off. Somewhere along the line, Josephine detached from his side. Lavellan navigated as he wished, sending polite nods and smiles to all the nobles silently, coyly vying for attention from the great _Herald of Andraste._ Eyes and murmurs followed him as he moved, though they were far friendlier than he'd grown accustomed.

“Got you the strongest stuff, Boss.” Bull informed, offering the cup. The Chargers--or, what was left of them; they’d clearly been soaking up drink since the party had started setting up--let out a disorganized, rowdy cheer. Lavellan took the glass and quickly drained it. It left a warm sting and coated his tongue in a taste he wasn’t familiar with. He gestured for another glass.

“So, how’s the food?” He asked between drinks.

“Not bad. All Orlesian.”

“Anything dubious?”

“Heard there were little cakes with mustard in ‘em.” Bull reclined in his seat, arms folded over his chest. “They all look the same to me, though.”

“Oh. Great.” An arm snaked around Lavellan’s waist, the familiar smell of styling wax already putting a smile on his lips.

“Well, I  _ never,”  _ Dorian drawled, “you make your big entrance and what’s the first thing you do? You  _ ignore  _ me. You go and you get drunk.”

“Awh,” Lavellan leaned into him, perhaps a bit too much given his unsteady legs. “So sad. Tell you what, I’ll toss little cakes into your mouth to make up for it.”

“How wanton! I’m shocked and scandalized.”

“Quit crowding the place, you two,” Sera chastised, moving around them to get at the buffet of alcohol.

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” Dorian murmured, ignoring her maneuvering, “An after-party will suffice. Just us two.”

“Are the cakes invited?”

“I’m sure you’ll find  _ something  _ to sate your appetite, my dear.” Lavellan let out a little  _ oo-ooh _ and pulled away with one last lingering touch. He drifted with the crowds, his drink in hand but forgotten.

He made his rounds: to Cullen, who looked more wilted than usual. They set up a chess game for the coming morning. To Cassandra, who seemed grateful to now have time to herself. To Varric, Blackwall and Sera, who were all doing their best to remain at least  _ politely  _ drunk. The former two, anyway. To Vivienne, who was well-immersed in the crowd, chatting away. She had little time for her Inquisitor, but she seemed happy, so Lavellan was perfectly content to leave her to her business.

Once he’d escaped from the crowd, he spotted a familiar young man seated atop one of the tables. He was all but bereft of company. He held a full glass in one hand, more like a set piece than a beverage.

“Hello, Cole. How are you doing?” Lavellan asked, as politely as he could manage as he sidled up. He leaned himself against the table at his side, following his gaze to the shifting crowd.

“I’m happy.” Cole said, matter-of-fact. “They’re all happy, too. You fixed the sky, so they can smile again.”

“Good to know they’re making the most of it.” Lavellan leaned back on his hands, letting out a thick sigh. Cole was quiet for a moment.

“You’re not… happy.” He murmured, “you’re afraid?” Lavellan kept quiet, allowing the boy to poke around in his head. “Wishing, wanting--aren’t  _ I  _ the one who leaves?” It was still odd, hearing his feelings voiced aloud. But what could he do? Stay coy and in the same, stubborn place forever?

“You don’t want them to go.” Lavellan gave a small nod, though it didn’t matter. Cole didn’t  _ need  _ confirmation.

“I want to stay.” He said next, his tone at its same matter-of-fact, “I like it here. Varric said he’d be leaving, but I won’t be alone.” Lavellan put on a tiny smile and gave the boy’s shoulder a small squeeze.

“That’s right,” he replied, feeling a tad bittersweet, “we’ll both have plenty of company.” The two of them were silent for a moment, watching the crowds shift and the distant music play. Maryden’s voice didn’t quite reach over the revelry.

“Can we hug?” Cole asked. Lavellan glanced in his direction; he still kept his eyes forward. “The hurt isn’t so bad when  _ they  _ do it.”

“Of course,” Lavellan replied, flashing another smile that Cole didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve never been hugged before.” Cole said, a tinge of happy excitement to his voice. He sat still as Lavellan did the work, wrapping arms around him and laying his chin on his shoulder. After a few moments, the elf drew away to hold him at arms’ length. He gave an expectant gesture.

“You smell like sleep.” Cole said. Lavellan gave a small nod, supposing it was a good enough reaction. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Josephine fussing over her writing pad. Attentively, he gave Cole another small pat to his shoulder.

“Thank you. I’ll see you again later, alright?” Cole’s  _ “how do you know?”  _ was lost in the clamour of the people once Lavellan turned to slip through the crowd.

“Lady Montilyet,” he drawled, already sounding close to scolding, “it’s a party. Do you know what that means?” Josephine, letting out an uneasy sigh, lowered her pad.

_ “Yes,  _ my Lord,” she replied, a tinge lukewarm. He drew in a closer, her frown becoming more evident. “It’s just that there’s  _ so  _ much to worry about. Do you like the refreshments? We received them last minute, and I’m just not sure…”

“Josephine,” he reminded, closer to a whisper, “everything’s fantastic. You did a wonderful job. Drink some wine.” Her smile was shaky at best.

“Oh, I’m not sure--”

“Do as your Inquisitor says, Josie,” Leliana--her approach unseen--interrupted.

“I’ll hold your…  _ thing  _ for you,” Lavellan offered, gesturing to the writing pad. Josephine held it a little closer once it was mentioned.

“No, that’s quite alright, Inquisitor.” Her smile was back, but it was tired. “You know what? I think perhaps I will take a break from our festivities. There is business I should attend to.” She clacked her way back through the hall to get to her office. Leliana gave him a backhanded smack to his chest once she’d gone from earshot. Lavellan soothed it with a hand, hardly given the time to fuss before she was carrying on.

“We looked into Solas as you instructed, Inquisitor.” She informed, her voice hushed. “He was seen leaving the area of the temple, but no-one has spotted him since. There’s no sign of him anywhere.” A worried frown warped his lips.

“So, that’s it? He’s just… disappeared?”

“Hopefully it makes you feel better to know,” she produced a small twine-bound report. It was only a few pages thick. “It seems as though he left of his own volition. Strange though this disappearance is, we have no proof of his fate, for better or worse. But he is a practiced mage, is he not?” Lavellan gave a small nod. “Perhaps you will see him again. I will keep my scouts on the look-out; if there is any sign to his reappearance, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you, Leliana.” He murmured, slipping one hand into his trouser pocket. The other took the report she palmed carefully into his grip. Silent pleasantries were exchanged and then the two of them parted simultaneously. Lavellan crossed the raised platform of his throne to get to his chambers; it wouldn’t do to have any of the report get lost. Or used for spitballs.

“Now,  _ where _ do you think you’re going?” Dorian tsked. Alas, here would be an insurmountable obstacle. The mage leaned on the wall beside his chamber door, trying for nonchalant even as he lingered, waiting for him. “The after-party doesn’t start for at  _ least  _ another half-hour.” He had his arms folded over his chest and one hip cocked to the side. Lavellan paused, tucking the report away in a lame attempt to hide it. It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.

“What’s that?” Dorian gestured to the short stack of paper Lavellan now held behind his back with both hands.

“Nothing.” He replied, casual enough.

“Really?” Dorian said, playing up a look of shock. “My, you must be the greatest mage I’ve ever met. Transmuting  _ nothing  _ into  _ work.” _

“I’m just putting it on my desk, is all.” Lavellan folded, tucking the report under his arm instead.

“Respectfully, my dear, I don’t believe that for a second.” Lavellan moved for the door but it was quickly blocked. “You get caught up in things without even trying. How do I know you won’t somehow be whisked away by the siren-song of paperwork?”

“Right, right. What'd'you want me to do?” He had the feeling  _ “pay attention to me”  _ would be the hidden answer.

“Plenty of things.” Was the reply. Lavellan glanced towards the party. They were still well-supplied with refreshments, despite both Iron Bull’s and Sera’s best attempts. It would last another few hours, at least.

“Fine.” He said. He lifted the report, pressing it to Dorian’s chest with a soft  _ smack  _ of the parchment. Tips of fingers came up to keep it from falling just as Lavellan’s hand, fingers splayed, clapped on top of it. He gave a light shove, making the mage bump a bit roughly into the door. He looked pleased, if a bit surprised, and Lavellan took another step forward. Whatever Bull had given him to drink had long since turned to a dull tingle in his fingertips.

He stepped in, chest-to-chest, and pecked a chaste kiss to the shell of his ear. One hand squeezed at the mage’s hip while his other searched blindly for the door handle. Dorian relaxed into him, hands still on the report atop his chest. As far as Lavellan could tell, he was smiling. He seemed quite pleased with himself, anyway.

“We’ll just have to start this exclusive party a bit early.” He informed, his voice a murmur.

_ “Someone’s  _ got to set up.” Dorian replied in a hum. Yes, he was  _ definitely  _ smiling. Lavellan’s hand found the door handle and he gave a little push, allowing them both to step inside. He kicked the door closed behind them, one arm looping around Dorian’s midsection to tug him along the wooden landing.

“Say, what was that I saw dear Josephine carrying around earlier?” Dorian asked, skirting the line between nosy and teasing now that privacy swaddled them. “I thought perhaps it was a walking stick, but that can’t be right. Our ambassador is perfectly spry.” Lavellan, rolling his eyes, continued to lean into him as they scaled the stairs.

“Perhaps it was a club,” Lavellan drawled, “you never know. Year and a half of dealing with noble folk and you start to lose your patience.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” A hand came to brace the elf’s shoulder until they cleared the stairs. Though there was a bit of hesitance, Dorian drew away, meandering as he was accustomed and eventually draping himself at the edge of Lavellan's bed. Said elf, remembering his original intent, dropped the report on his desk. He took two glasses and a half-empty bottle of wine in return.

“Has a bird ever found its way in here?” Dorian asked, propped up on his elbows. He let his head hang back; gazing, pensive, up at the faraway ceiling rafters. Lavellan drained the bottle into the two too-full glasses and then plucked them up in either hand to walk them across the room. He offered one once within reach.

“Just the one, dove.” He replied, a bit too pleased with his own joke. He took a dainty sip of his wine to hide his plucky grin.

“Yes, I suppose I walked into that one.” Dorian murmured into his drink. Then, remembering himself, he stood. His free hand smoothed his unwrinkled vestment out of habit.

“A toast!” He suggested cheerily, raising his glass. Lavellan, pleasantly surprised, followed with some hesitation.

“To…?”

“To us.” Dorian provided. The elf grinned a little brighter. Dorian’s smile was too sweet and it made him need to look away.

“Right,” he agreed, their glasses meeting in a gentle  _ tink,  _ “to us.” Maneuvering his arms around the other man while not spilling his drink took the sum of Lavellan’s nearly-tipsy grace. He held out his glass at a short distance as he did, cheek-to-cheek and pressing a wine-flavoured kiss to his jugular. He drew away after a peaceful moment, hand sliding as an afterthought to rest on Dorian’s chest.

“To me, anyway, for being so wonderfully philanthropic; stealing you away from that  _ dreadful  _ party full of friends and allies.” Dorian said, taking another lazier drink of his wine.

“Steal me away whenever you’d like, vhenan. I’m all yours.”

“Are you, now?” Dorian asked, giving his head a little tilt. “All those dowagers will be  _ so  _ disappointed.”

“Yes, well,” the elf’s wine switched hands, his free one now coming up to card through the hair at the nape of Dorian’s neck, “I’m not hopelessly enamored with all of them, unfortunately, so they’ll have to go without.”

_ “Hopelessly?” _ Dorian repeated, looking a bit amused. Something in his stance seemed uneasy, so Lavellan put on a careful smile. Clearing his throat, he cast his gaze down to the mage’s neckline. His gift of a serpent charm laid on a silver chain alongside the Pavus birthright, tucked partway beneath his collar. Lavellan ran his thumb along part of the chain.

“I’m absolutely daft,” he murmured, “a complete fool for you. I’ve always been one, but this is something special.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Mm. Yeah, ‘tis.” Coy, not-quite I-love-yous were all well and good, but they were starting to weigh on his conscience. When would he get another chance? His mouth was a bit dry, so he took another small sip of his wine. It was like an odd little barrier between them, then, when he held it to his chest and ran his thumb along the rim.

“I love you, you know.” He said, more direct this time. He studied the amulet for a few more moments before he looked up to find Dorian frozen. He balked, wide-eyed, for a moment before he covered it--albeit clumsily--with something a bit more nonchalant. Syrillon nodded at the silence, slow, his hand coming to rest at Dorian’s shoulder. “Speechless, I see.”

“Just… not what I was expecting you to say.”

“It’s been stewing a while. I had to work up to it.”

“Quite,” Dorian turned the glass in his hand, “I’m certain I don’t need to tell you that this is…” He trailed off, “... unprecedented.” He was quieter, now, but nearly at a forced laugh. He’d hidden the unease from his expression, but it still leaked through in his tone.

“Of course not,” Syrillon agreed, working to be as lax as he could be, “don’t feel pressured. Thought I should at  _ least  _ say it before my next near-death experience.”

“A wise choice.” Dorian’s smile returned, bit by bit, and it was giddier this time. “Does this mean you want that charming little statuette back again?”

“Mm. Surprise me.” Syrillon replied in a sigh, giving a vague shrug. “Though I should warn you,” he started, giving the mage a weak jab to his chest with one finger unwound from his glass, “I’ll be saying it a bit more. To make up for lost time.”

“Naturally,” Dorian hummed. “I’ll brace myself. Perhaps I’ll even get used to it; how novel.” There was something joyful, and perhaps relieved, in the way Dorian smiled.  _ “Surprising  _ you, that is.” He corrected. Of course, whatever else could he mean?

_ “Right.”  _ Syrillon abandoned his wine at his bedside table before taking a seat atop the empty, perfectly well-made bedspread. It must've been a number of days, now. “Perhaps I could recount all the ways I’ve tried to tell you to  _ surprise me,” _ he suggested, “or come up with a few more.”

“Sounds like a brilliant idea.”

“Surprising, even.”


	50. The Beginning (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a number of months after the final battle, just for clarification.
> 
> Athenias, if you're reading this, be prepared for some zero-braincell action. Reader's discretion is advised!

Syrillon unfurled himself from the sheets, one lazy hand coming up to brush the hair from his face. Dorian glanced over his shoulder towards him, willing the sleep to be wicked from his gaze.

“Good morning,” he greeted, a bit dreary. The elf rubbed fitfully at his half-closed eyes. Dorian stayed where he was: laying on his stomach, one hand propping open his book, his other curled close from being leaned on.

“G’morn,” Syrillon replied, slurred. He rolled onto his side, pecking a kiss to the mage’s cheek, one lazy hand coming to trace the line of his back. “How long’ve you been up?”

“A few hours.” Dorian said, soothing his book shut with a silent sigh. He exchanged hands, propping his head up on one fist. Syrillon seemed to wake a bit more. Brow knit tight, one warm palm stilled high on Dorian’s back. It felt unusually sweet, being doted after.

“You alright? Trouble sleeping?” He supplied a short nod, trying to not shift to ease his aching back now that his attention was brought back to it.

“It’s all this exquisite bedding,” Dorian replied, already putting on a layer of derision, “you let me steal all the sheets. You’re such a terrible appeaser; I nearly suffocated.”

“Sounds stressful.” Syrillon drawled, shuffling a bit closer. His fingers danced up to Dorian’s shoulder, where they dug gently into the skin. Even that was enough to help ease some of the ache. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with all your… _tension,_ would it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Dorian replied. Perhaps if he played coy he wouldn’t feel so foolish about it all; about the sense of being horribly _ancient_ now that his body always seemed to ache. He pushed his book away and folded his arms underneath his chin, enjoying the singular attention as a distraction. One leg swung over top of him and, to his surprise--though not his chagrin--the elf straddled his hips.

“No?” Syrillon said. Dorian sank with a sigh as hands trailed up his back, pressing in soothing circles. “Of course, I’d _never_ notice you rubbing your shoulders. Not like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.” He murmured, pressing the heel of his palm into a tight, crunchy muscle and earning a pleased groan. _“Oh, but I’m just fine, amatus, no need to fret like an old fusspot,”_ he imitated, playing up the accent. “You scrunch yourself up and read all day and then try to hide it when it makes your back hurt. Honestly, I think I really _am_ rubbing off on you.”

“Keep doing that,” Dorian ordered, voice muffled from pressing into his arms. He ignored the poor impression for favour of enjoying the massage. “And… while you’re at it, make up a clever joke about rubbing on me.” Syrillon let out a long hum of something like agreement. He was quiet for a moment, working the mage into a weak ball of putty beneath him. Dorian had all but melted into the mattress by the time he spoke again, keeping him from teetering too far on the edge of consciousness.

“We should go on holiday, like we spoke about before,” he suggested, “keep you away from your reading awhile. If that’s at all possible.”

“Certainly a noble sentiment.” Dorian replied. He turned his head, his other cheek now pressed into his forearm. A thumb worked into another tight knot and he couldn’t help another weak hum.

“We could consider it a honeymoon.” Dorian’s brow furrowed in the midst of his enjoyment.

“I… suppose.” Was he suggesting…? “Though that would typically be connotative of _marriage.”_ Syrillon was silent for another moment and Dorian started to itch. Still, he didn’t move. The hands on his back slowed until they rested over his shoulder blades.

“Would you marry me?” He asked.

Oh.

That… was not how he’d expected his morning to go. Fear, confusion and joy mingled in Dorian’s gut. He floundered for a moment, trying to reel in the right words. Dully, he realized he’d been silent for what was probably a moment too long and his jaw had been left gaping.

“I--well--yes.” He replied, already halfway to letting out a defeated sigh. It wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured, if ever he’d allowed himself to picture such a thing with any amount of clarity. Generally, at the very least, it wouldn’t be while getting a massage. He pushed himself to sit up and the elf crawled away. In seeing his expression, he seemed… off. A bit too casual. Pensive, maybe. Confusion, tinted with concern, started to creep up.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, expectant, testing the waters. Syrillon perked up.

“Oh, nothing. Just surprised, is all.” The elf leaned back on his hands, one long leg bent at the knee and drawn in close.

“You… didn’t think I’d say yes?” He ventured.

“Not really.” There was a vague shrug. “Suppose I never saw myself as a marriage sort, and figured it might carry over.” Dorian’s face wound up and he made a puzzled gesture.

“Do you not want to, then?”

“Want to what?”

“Get _married.”_ Confusion, then surprise, then horror crossed the elf’s expression in rapid succession. He clapped a hand over his mouth, then both of them over his eyes.

“Oh, fenedhis, I’m an idiot--” he murmured, “--what’s the matter with me?” Reality started to sink in. It was a relief, at first, that actual, real _marriage_ wasn’t being suggested so carelessly. Then, to his minor surprise, a tinge of disappointment. He’d be thinking on that later, perhaps, when Syrillon didn’t seem so absolutely mortified.

“I meant--I _meant_ would. As in, _would_ you marry _me?_ Consider it, is all.” Syrillon sank with a groan and then an embarrassed laugh from behind his smothering hands. “This never happens in elvish. You never _say_ anything in elvish, so I never get so misconstrued.”

It would be funny later, probably. It was funny _now,_ in Dorian’s opinion, though it did seem a bit rude to rib him over his skill at a language that wasn’t his own. But later? Varric would _have_ to know about this, if only for accuracy’s sake, should he truly be penning that novel about their fun little rag-tag group. For now, he pushed down his smile, swallowed his laughter, and gave the elf a small, comforting embrace.

“Just for… accuracy,” Dorian started, choosing the word quite carefully, _“would_ you marry me?” It was harder to push down his insolent smile. At least he wasn’t being looked at.

 _“Yes,”_ Syrillon groaned, his embarrassed frown audible. “Yes, I would _consider_ marrying you. I’d consider it plenty.”

-

Honestly, thank goodness _one_ of them had a little initiative. Dorian had taken Syrillon’s little blunder--which had only become more amusing with time--and turned it into a plan. It had been nearly a month since then, and things were falling quite neatly into place. Any day now, he’d go through with it. He’d just have to swallow his worry and get around to the most frightening bit.

He’d even gotten a few others in on it. Varric, first of all, as he seemed like a natural confidant when Syrillon was involved. Evidently, the dwarf had loose lips. Cassandra, a true romantic, approached him a few days later to ask about the details. He wasn’t _surprised,_ per say, but more people’s noses in his and the Inquisitor’s business wasn’t going to put him any more at ease. Thankfully, the two of them--though it was certainly one more than the other--seemed to keep it hush-hush. Then, another week passed.

Suddenly, the Iron Bull _somehow_ caught wind of the rumour and had come, as _loudly_ as Dorian had seen someone sneak, to chat about it. He’d offered a bit of unneeded advice and a crass well-wish before leaving him to his reading, which wasn’t especially productive. Then, as if even the walls had ears, Sera was starting to make jokes. Little ones.

Thankfully, it seemed everyone was on nearly the same page, give or take. That page being: _Dorian’s up to something,_ and, _don’t let Lavellan know._ Every little jab or remark was kept firmly out of the Inquisitor’s earshot, as far as Dorian could tell. By the time he got the ring, he wondered if the secrecy was even worthwhile anymore.

The only one who _didn’t_ seem to know was Blackwall, bless his heart, but it didn’t matter. It was sunny out, on that afternoon in spring, and Maryden, as instructed, was playing a gentle song in the garden. Varric and Cassandra just _happened_ to both be going for a stroll through it. Iron Bull and Sera both seemed, by random coincidence, to need embrium clippings for entirely different reasons. Thank _goodness_ there was some growing just below the Inquisitor’s balcony, where Dorian now stood, floundering.

Blackwall, drawn there by rumour or, indeed, fate, sat in the shade of the gazebo. The commander and the spymaster played chess in the shadowy seating area across the garden. Even Cole came to watch the birds. At that point, given all their uncanny foresight, Dorian would have expected Vivienne to arrive, putting on some great show, in a royal procession from the capital. It would be the whole group back together, what joy!

The audience, though it was endearing, was _not_ making things easier. Iron Bull thought he was _so_ clever, giving him a little thumbs-up. Dorian even caught sight of Josephine, who seemed to be keeping ne’er-do-wells (aside from the ones already inside) from sneaking into the gardens. Perhaps it was Varric who had asked her. It certainly hadn’t been Dorian himself; he was perfectly content to do whatever he was capable and leave it at that. Why fuss? Why make it out to be a bigger deal? He was only proposing a life-long commitment and _kaffas,_ he was really _doing_ this--

“Maker, it’s bright out,” Syrillon murmured, stepping out onto the balcony. Dorian startled, though he played it off in his turning round. “I don’t know how you’re standing it.” The elf kept one hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he strode out to the railing.

“You grow used to it.” He turned the ring in his pocket, worrying the inside of his cheek. Syrillon leaned onto the balustrade, peering down into the gardens. His brows furrowed with a puzzled smile, sending a wave to one of their companions below. They were absolutely going to _ruin_ this for him, weren’t they?

“You alright?” The elf asked, glancing back at him. “You’re quiet.”

“Lost in thought, is all,” he replied, flashing a small smile. Maryden continued to pluck out a simple, sweet melody. It seemed to catch Syrillon’s attention, because he perked up with a tiny smile.

“That’s no good,” he said, taking a step back. He held out one hand, “come, let’s dance. I’ll steal your attention yet.” Dorian considered the offer. He sent a hurried glance towards the gardens before, more confidently than he felt, he laid his own hand atop it.

“As _if_ that would ever happen.” He was tugged into a familiar stance and he relaxed an inch, allowing the other man to lead. “I was going to ask you something,” he said, “before you decided to be so unfortunately romantic.”

“Were you? Apologies.” Dorian spun out at arms’ length before he was tugged back in. “I’ll refrain.”

“No, no, please. I’ll work it in somehow.”

“You always do.”

“Why, I never! The Herald of Andraste, _flirting--”_ The dancing slowed until it was a bare swaying. Syrillon’s chest was to his back, Dorian’s arms crossed over his midsection with his hands held in a loose embrace.

“You’re _funny_ today,” the elf mused, a bit drier, “wonder why that is.”

“I suppose I could provide an answer,” Dorian replied, letting loose a small sigh. His hands were released, so he stepped away. “For a nominal fee, of course.”

“Of course.” Syrillon repeated, folding his arms over his chest. “What’ll it be? A little dance? Kissing your rings? What?”

“Interesting choice of words,” Dorian chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound as uneasy as he was starting to feel. “How about you close your eyes?” Maker knew he could use less of an audience.

“Is that the fee?”

“Sure.”

“I’m starting to think you’re up to something,” Syrillon drawled, partway to a sigh, though he did as he was told. Dorian, stifling a new wave of panic, dropped to one knee. He worked the ring from his pocket and held it tight between his thumb and forefinger, enough to leave a mark in the skin. His traitor mind started to run off-course. What if he said no? What in the world would he _do?_ Drink himself into an embarrassed stupor?

“Alright, you can look.” He instructed, holding up the ring for him to see. Syrillon’s eyes blinked open. First, he assessed Dorian’s stance, brows furrowed. A small smile sprouted, which he seemed to be suppressing, albeit poorly. It turned to a toothy grin the longer he looked him over. Embarrassment started to climb despite his best efforts.

“After your little… _mistake,_ I started to think about what you said. So… I have a proposal, of sorts.”

“Apparently so.” Syrillon’s smile was sweet and tender but without an outward answer, Dorian still felt on-edge.

“Go on, get up. You’ll ruin your knees.” The elf gestured for him to stand and a seed of dread started to sprout. Before he could press, a soft kiss was pecked to his lips. Syrillon’s hand closed around his own, taking up the ring. That was a yes, wasn’t it? “You look so panicked. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Oh, here and there.” Dorian replied, now left to fidget with empty hands. “To be quite honest, I would’ve liked to prepare a bit more, but you know how these things go.”

“I do, do I?” Syrillon, still smiling, slid the ring onto his finger. The grin was a bit too cheeky.

“I decided, in your honour, to do what you’d do and make things up as I went along. I had very little to go off, you see, and I had no idea what to expect at all. I still don’t, if I’m being perfectly honest. I’ve nothing to compare to.” Letting out a soft laugh, Syrillon wound his arms around his midsection and wrapped him up in a warm embrace.

“Awh, look at you. Muddling through.” He murmured, his laugh shaking between their chests.

“Yes, well,” one of Dorian’s hands came to rest over the back of the elf’s head, “if I could just keep _muddling through_ alongside you, I’d be quite content.”

“Is that the heartfelt proposal?” Syrillon asked, “Let’s muddle through, but with matching rings this time?”

“You’re saying you _don’t_ want to have matching rings?” Syrillon gave him a squeeze with his next laugh. “Tell me you don’t. I have to hear it aloud or I won’t believe it; everyone wants that sort of rubbish.” The elf drew away, that same fond smile on his face.

“Dorian,” a hand slid up to cup his cheek, “I’d be delighted to stay by your side, muddling or no.” Dorian put on a smile of his own, though it was a tad shaky. He placed his hand over top of Syrillon's.

“I must admit, I haven’t the faintest idea what should come next.”

“Well, that’s a first, isn’t it?” Syrillon let out a quiet chuckle, “far as I know… it’s up to us. But nothing has to change; we can keep on the way we have been, save for a new title or two.”

“Well, that’ll make _my_ job easier,” Dorian drawled, untangling their hands and downplaying his complete and utter relief. “How about a bit of consummation? I’m sick of the music.”

“What, already?” Syrillon asked, tugged along by intertwined fingers.

 _“You_ said it was up to us,” Dorian reminded, “are you going to retract your statement?”

“I’d never!” The balcony door tugged closed behind them with a gentle _click,_ shutting out the soft lute melody and the quietly excited murmuring of the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!
> 
> It's been a fun 3-ish months. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked, et cetera. I have a sequel in the works which will pertain to Trespasser. It won't come as quickly as this one has, as I'll be in school by then and won't have endless weeks of Nothing thanks to quarantine. In the meantime, the next part of this series is short scenes between Lavellan and Dorian. It will lead into Trespasser.
> 
> Edit (9/27/2020): A Short Thing is now finished. It will continue to be updated as I'm able; just little less-important fun bits in the middle. BUT, it now leads nicely into the sequel. 
> 
> Edit (11/24/2020): The Trespasser sequel, These Boots Are Made For, is also finished. Enjoy :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this funky little journey.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment letting me know your thinkies :)


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